
Class P^QS^S" 



Book 

GopyiightN°_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



IDYLS AND SKETCHES 



IDYLS ^»^ SKETCHES 



BY 

SISTER M. BLANCHE 

OF THE SISTERS OF THE HOLY CROSS 
AUTHOR OF "POEMS" 




P. J. KENEDY & SONS 

PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE 

44 BARCLAY STREET, NEW YORK 






fs^ 



•^ V^ ^* 



Copyright, 1916, 
ST. MARY'S ACADEMY 

NOTRE DAME, ST. JOSEPH'S COITNTY, INDIANA 



APR 23 1916 



'CI.A4a7907 



TO THE DEAR MEMORY OF 

SISTER M. BERTHA 

OF THE SISTERS OF THE HOLY CROSS — 
THE NOBLE, THE UNSELFISH, THE DEVOTED 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

In Red and Gold ii 

Winter Moonlight 19 

A Study in Gray 25 

In April 31 

The Out-Door World 37 

A Summer Siesta 43 

A Few Bird Notes 51 

Birds in the Bush 59 

A Bunch of Wild Flowers . . . .69 

Flower-Lore 79 

Concerning Color 89 

Gems of Purest Ray — I 97 

Gems of Purest Ray — II 105 

Brands of Humor 115 

Table Talk 123 

The Letter Is the Man 131 

Character Requisites 137 

Be Natural 143 

Springs of Emotion 149 

9 



lo CONTENTS 








PAGE 

Horoscopes Versus Telescopes .... 155 


When Alchemy Was King 








163 


Celestial Messengers 








171 


Mother Earth . 








179 


Pictures in Glass 








185 


The Humorist of Sunnyside 








193 


The Fireside Bard 








201 


Swallow Flights of Song 








207 


A Great Catholic Poet 








217 



IN RED AND GOLD 



IDYLS AND SKETCHES 



IN RED AND GOLD 

DO you remember that day in August, when 
idly glancing upward at the waving tree- 
tops, you descried a tiny red leaf? That was the 
first application of nature's small taper to the 
foliage, which slowly catching fire, has at length 
burst into this October blaze of color. 

To attempt to translate into words the thou- 
sand subtle shades caught in the meshes of the 
autumnal foliage is to court defeat, though it may 
be said that in the congress of colors, crimson and 
gold lord it over the others. Every tree has hung 
its most gorgeous banner upon its framework of 
limbs and branches, and the earth itself seems 
arched over by a hollow hemisphere of thinnest 
turquoise. 

Here is a maple which yesterday stood conspic- 
uous and green in the midst of its bright-hued 
neighbors, as if steadily refusing to change its 
color, but under the light kiss of last night's frost, 

13 



14 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

it has blushed a bright crimson. There, a tree clad 
in sober russet, nestles its leafage against a neigh- 
bor gorgeous in scarlet and amber. Another, to 
whose foliage belongs the epithet plum-color, 
sways over the river, seemingly enamored of the 
reflection visible in the liquid mirror below. 
Everywhere is a wealth of beauty and a splendor 
more than oriental ! 

This is a day steeped in fall sunshine. Sweetly 
seductive, it coaxes the student from his desk, bid- 
ding him "go forth under the open sky and list to 
nature's teachings." A passing cloud hides the 
sun for a moment and the river shows gray and 
wrinkled. But stay! Has some gigantic mirror 
been shattered and the fragments given to the 
current*? No, it is only the witchery of the sun- 
light gleaming on the surface of the water. Small 
wonder that the river breaks into dimples and 
sunny smiles, for are not the stately trees, resplen- 
dent in autumnal regalia, mounting guard over it? 

Here and there, a belated plumelet of golden- 
rod bends in the breeze, while purple asters 
sprinkle the low undergrowth with soft color. In 
the thickets flaunt the rich crimson leaves of the 
sumach with its wine-red drupes, the latter a com- 
fort to the eye, though to the palate not an un- 
mixed pleasure. 



IN RED AND GOLD 15 

The birds just on the eve of taking wing, now 
betray their presence by a swift darting in and out 
among the branches, and a few twittering notes 
sung, perhaps, just to keep their voices in tune. 
Again, something that sounds ominously like a 
"family jar" comes from yonder clump of trees. 
Indeed there is much commotion in birddom just 
now, as if for the annual exodus the family ward- 
robe and paraphernalia were being made ready 
for transference to Southland. 

Let us take a look at the neighboring ravine 
arrayed in all its autumn finery. Its bosky coverts 
in mid-summer seem wrapped in sylvan mystery. 
Not so long ago you could not screw your courage 
to the sticking place, in order to penetrate its 
tangled paths and shadowy recesses. But to-day 
there is a perceptible thinning of the red and gold 
tapestry, and you easily pluck out the heart of its 
mystery, which was, after all, an open secret. 

Here is a fallen tree-trunk, moss-grown and 
lichen-crusted. The woodbine's leaflets, like so 
many tongues of flame, flutter along its gray 
length, giving it a beauty it could not boast even 
when it lifted its green top to the skies. Here, 
too, hanging in cylindrical racemes, grows the 
fruit which bears the prosaic name, pokeberry. 
The truant lad, fleeing from irksome school tasks. 



i6 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

early learns its whereabouts and distils from its 
juicy globes the ruby fluid which with boyish 
pride he labels ''red ink." 

Clambering out of the ravine where the ascent 
is easiest, we follow a path that winds close to the 
edge of a newly-plowed field, and are again 
brought face to face with the swift-flowing river. 
Here the maples begin to reveal their anatomy. 
Under the winds' rude buffetings, they have cast 
off much of their summer vesture. There it lies, 
doing duty now as a carpet, and soon to be re- 
solved into its original elements. 

But the stately oaks — what of them^ Like vet- 
erans tried and true they stand, wrapping their 
splendid drapery about them, ready to fight val- 
iantly with wind and storm. If the oak leaf, 
glossy and green, is a thing of beauty when bathed 
in light, what can be said when autumn has waved 
her magic wand above it? Its deep lobes and 
graceful curves have taken unto themselves a new 
charm, and when sunlight filters through the 
swaying mass of leaves, the brown, the scarlet, the 
rich purple that dye their tissue, as to color effect 
place at a discount the best product of oriental 
looms. 

Looking at the flaming maples and the glowing 
oaks, Thoreau called them the true fall roses. 



IN RED AND GOLD 17 

The surrounding pines were to him the green 
calyx whence arose the myriad small petals flut- 
tering in the breeze. And in truth the fancy is 
not inapt. Standing upon some height command- 
ing a view of the distant woodlands, the effect is 
not unlike that of an immense flower garden, ter- 
race above terrace, the colors blended and toned 
down by distance — like those of an old painting 
mellowed and softened by time. But day de- 
clines, and the trees away off at the horizon's edge 
are already wrapping themselves in gauzy veils 
of blue and hiding from our view autumn's glo- 
rious panorama painted in red and gold. 



WINTER MOONLIGHT 



WINTER MOONLIGHT 

THE moon had not risen and the sky, a vast 
flower-bell of blue sprinkled with a few 
yellow stars for pollen dust, hung solemn and still 
above the white earth. Suddenly, low down in 
the eastern horizon, a cloud-bank catches a glow 
from some hidden luminary and appears like a 
fragile vase lighted from within. 

Brighter and brighter grows the illumination. 
Something mysterious is happening yonder in that 
eastern arc of the horizon. A red radiance now 
shines through the cloud-drift. It contracts to a 
head ; it forces its way through the clouds — a ruby 
in a white setting — burns there for a few mo- 
ments, rises higher and higher, the red glow fad- 
ing to silver, and behold! the moon has risen. 

Then begin the transformation scenes. Down 
pours the argent flood upon a world wrapped in 
snow. The lawn and the far fields stretch away 
as if covered with white velvet, glinting with the 
dust of a million diamonds. As the moon climbs 
higher the sky's blue slope, the pines, and spruces, 

21 



22 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

with something akin to grim humor, throw gro- 
tesque shadows upon the outspread white, and 
each many-branching maple lets fall a tracery del- 
icate and exquisite beyond the pencil of mortal 
artist. 

Each viewpoint presents a new picture in a new 
setting. The road down the avenue, under the 
combined forces of the snow and the heavenly 
alchemy of the moonlight, seems cut through low 
quarries of Parian marble, to right and left lying 
the piled-up fragments. Who shall say that the 
moon is not a magician'? Or is it the man who is 
popularly said to dwell there? Be the witchery 
whence it may, yonder prosaic pile of brick and 
mortar — what with the snow and the moon's mild 
rays — illustrates a new and beautiful order of 
architecture. 

The trees that in summer arch the avenue with 
shade, now stand like a double line of sentinels in 
gray garb, with soldierly erectness and dignity 
around the bier of winter; as I have seen a mil- 
itary company in gray uniforms — each man with 
musket in hand and motionless as a statue — drawn 
up round the catafalque of a Chief Magistrate. 

But with the passing hours the aspect of the 
heavens changes. Now the sky becomes a sea 
whose waves are crested with cloud-foam, and the 



WINTER MOONLIGHT 23 

moon, a kind of water-lily loosed from its moor- 
ings, afloat thereon. The cloud-foam surges over 
it and it is lost to view, but scatters anon, and 
there is the moonflower as if newly blossomed, 
drifting over the blue. 

Hastening to her setting over there in the west, 
just above the church, lonely Venus hangs, liquid 
and large, another Bethlehem's star or a sanctuary 
lamp above the Holy of Holies. The brooding 
silence of a mid-winter night is over all. The 
gray river twists and curves between white fields. 
The magic moonlight has made it a mirror of steel 
in which the trees that fringe its brink do glass 
themselves — the trees "where late the sweet birds 
sang." 

At intervals, a light breeze rustles the few sear 
leaves that still cling to the oaks and a weird 
sound smites the ear — a sound out of harmony 
with this winter loveliness. One might fancy it 
the ghost of summer sighing for the days that are 
no more. The mist rising from the river floats 
landward, and the falling temperature weaves 
from it veils of the whitest, filmiest lawn, seem- 
ingly suspended from the trees. 

To the south, far across the snow fields, gleam 
the village lights, a few looking not unlike stars 
just risen above the skyline. Night has come — if 



24 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

beautiful, serious and sad also — an hour and a sea- 
son when the home-feeling stirs most strongly in 
the heart of the wayfarer. 

But the wayfarer, if haply he be not altogether 
blind to beauty, may read in this winter idyl poe- 
try written by God's own hand. Not the passion- 
ate poetry of summer that holds the heart in thrall 
by its sensuous loveliness, but a majestic kind, 
serene, austere and noble. Gazing upon the world 
swathed in snow, and steeped in silvery light, the 
soul must needs soar on the wings of loving 
thought to the Poet of poets — God. 



A STUDY IN GRAY 



A STUDY IN GRAY 

NATURE is your true landscape painter. 
The mile, not the foot, is the unit measure 
of her canvases. Upon her palette rest colors, 
with their infinite variety of shades and tints, 
found in no mortal studio. When the summer 
panorama is unrolled, count, if you can, the thou- 
sand-and-one hues that blend with the ubiquitous 
green of the picture, or give a name to the dyes 
that greet the gaze when the autumnal canvas 
glides into view. 

For weeks past the eye has been fed with the 
wraith-like beauty of the wintry landscape, but 
after a few revolutions of the earth, upon which 
is stretched this canvas, a picture widely different 
stands upon the easel. It is morning, and you look 
out upon the new day. The first glimpse of that 
colossal picture, the outer world, though in keep- 
ing with the season, is depressing. A lenten atmos- 
phere pervades the scene. The sky that yesterday 
bent blue and beautiful over the white earth, to- 
day frowns gray and threatening, and like an 

27 



28 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

empty room, bereft of a familiar presence, seems 
grieving at the absence of the friendly sun. 

Mother Earth, too, is in a penitential mood, and 
wears her garb of sackcloth — a nondescript ves- 
ture woven of last year's withered leaves and 
grasses — in a manner becoming a penitent of the 
most approved type. Across the river the dun- 
colored . meadows stretch away townward, with 
here and there a gnarled tree mounting solitary 
guard over fields which not so long ago laughed in 
summer beauty. 

The sullen river to-day sends back no answer- 
ing gleam to the sky, but rolls lakeward its leaden 
tide, sentineled by trees from which all life seems 
to have departed. And the feeling awakened in 
the onlooker *? Something akin to that which 
would stir the heart on gazing upon the ruin of 
once noble architecture, from the wreck of whose 
beauty all glory has fled. 

Higher up, where the bluff stretches into a 
broad lawn, the skeleton oaks and maples keep 
company with the brooding pines and hemlocks, 
whose crape-like drapery hangs limp and funereal, 
suggestive of flags at half-mast. And yet the note 
of beauty is present amid the general grayness. 
Observe the lovely lacework woven against the sky 



A STUDY IN GRAY 29 

by the many-branching maples with their multi- 
tudinous twigs and branchlets. Glance down at 
the rough tree trunks, encrusted with gray-green 
lichen gems, looking out from a fantastically 
curled setting of silver-gray. Of a truth, this is 
lenten loveliness. 

Yonder the catalpa droops its tasseled pods, all 
that is left to tell us that last July those twisted 
limbs were hidden by bouquets of fragrant bloom. 
To a few oaks, some russet leaves still cling, and, 
as the light wind stirs them, a sound like a half- 
suppressed sigh startles the ear. The saucy spar- 
row, as if depressed by the general dulness, 
neglects to chirp, but flits about, his drab vest 
adding another shade of gray to the scene. But I 
forget. There is a dash of bright color over there, 
where the rose-bush holds its scarlet fruit like tiny 
red birds in a cage, waiting for summer to unbar 
the door. 

Yes, the whole outdoor world is somber and sad, 
as if under a spell of enchantment. Nature seems 
in breathless expectation of the coming of some 
one. Who is the prince that will break the spell ? 
The summer sun, of course, and even now there 
are signs and tokens that hint of his coming. 
Yonder, in the west, is a strip of blue "not larger 



30 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

than a man's hand," but it will spread far and 
wide until the sky wears a turquoise tint, when the 
earth will throw aside her sackcloth and ashes and 
awake to life and loveliness. 



IN APRIL 



IN APRIL 

WHEN Spring comes up from the south, 
every frank true heart must needs, me- 
thinks, beat a little faster at the first glad note 
of the bluebird that tells of her coming. There 
is a mysterious sympathy of the spirit with the 
life awakening in the breast of earth. Whether 
we will or not, it seems to proclaim us her next of 
kin. 

There is a nameless something in the air that 
affects us like a draught from some fabled foun- 
tain of youth and hope. Life must have showed 
only its seamy side to him, whose eye now is not 
brighter, whose heart is not lighter, and who does 
not listen with a smile to the bird of hope singing 
to his awakened soul. 

April days there are, that I am persuaded have 
stolen from May no small fraction of her sweet 
seductiveness. Then the air is bland and soft and 
caressing. Dove-gray clouds, now and again, shot 
through with pale gold, move with languid grace 
across the sky. Or perhaps the vaporous veils 

33 



34 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

part for a moment, revealing a soft azure, as a 
blue-eyed lass draws aside the drapery of her 
window, then shyly lets it fall again. 

Beauty's spell has fallen upon the earth. The 
brook calls me forth with a voice that is music's 
own. The witchery of color in sky and tree and 
flower beckons to me. Can I resist these alluring 
invitations? Not I indeed. And as I walk along 
the path that skirts the river's brink, I see that 
Spring has left signs and tokens indicative of her 
presence. On my right, and leaning well over the 
water, are the pussy willows, their silver-green 
stems already wearing the gray tassels to which 
they owe their name. A little later I know these 
downy pendants will fall, and the willows wrap 
themselves in a haze of green. 

Far up on the steep incline of the river bank I 
see the waxen petals of the blood-root gleaming. 
The sun, not so long ago, forced it to let fall its 
leaf-cloak. There it is now a little below the 
flower-cup, cunningly cut in bewildering sinuses, 
its color a pale green, tantalizingly reminiscent of 
blue. 

As I go further on, the spring blooms look at 
me with the old, familiar faces, all expressing the 
dominant mood of the season. They are delicate 
and shy; charming, with the shrinking, uncertain 



IN APRIL 35 

charm of spring. They possess the elusive beauty 
that lurks in soft tones and faint colors. April 
sees the hepaticas out in full force, some born in 
the purple, others gowned in dainty blue, and a 
few wearing a color faintly suggestive of shell- 
pink. They have tossed back the grayish furry- 
hood of the involucre that half revealed, half con- 
cealed their charms and now fairly challenge ad- 
miration. 

But there are other blooms out taking the air 
of these April days. Starlike they gleam — the 
anemones — as they climb the slant of the river 
bluff, now with blanched petals fluttering in the 
breeze, now softly touched with an exquisite violet 
or a delicious pink. With fine scorn of things sub- 
lunary, old Boreas sweeps over them in mad haste. 
They tremble and sway and I think all is over 
with them. A little later I pass that way again, 
and am pleasantly startled at seeing them safe 
and sound, smiling at me from the brown mold. 

Loitering along, on the alert for discoveries, I 
come to a point where the river sweeps with a 
graceful curve to the south. There a wilful little 
stream hastens to join the gray river, as if al- 
lured by the verdant meadow, and gurgling and 
purling, it goes on its winsome way eastward. 
Rich mosses of velvet pile and softness line its 



36 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

rim, and from this bed as the season advances, 
quivering fans of maidenhair will rise. 

On all sides Spring is writing her signature in 
characters of budding loveliness. Grassy knolls 
and shadowy dingles, yonder woodland wrapped 
in blue mist, the wrinkled waters of the river, now 
in the flush of sunset running like wine, all con- 
tend in amiable rivalry for the palm of beauty. 

The tide of verdure is rising higher and higher. 
Soon all the earth will be immersed in an emerald 
sea — a sea that will break into a bewildering foam 
of flowers when timid April has yielded her throne 
to winsome May and passionate-hearted June. 



THE OUT-DOOR WORLD 



THE OUT-DOOR WORLD 

WHEN skies are gray, and the mercury in the 
thermometer is hastening zero-ward, it 
costs us nothing to resign ourselves to the charms 
of a cozy room with our favorite studies or au- 
thors at our elbow. Given this state of affairs, 
and our surroundings by contrast with the bleak 
outer world, become doubly delightful. If the 
printed page tires us the pictures upon the wall 
afford pleasant rest for the eye; the plants in the 
window are to us a bit of summer, and we are not 
tempted from pen or book by attractions from 
without. 

But the scene has changed. The earth has in- 
deed rolled out of darkness into light and the an- 
nual miracle of spring is being performed right 
under our eyes. Our room suddenly loses its 
charm. It seems narrow and gloomy. The four 
walls cramp us as if they were those of a prison 
cell; the budding trees and flowers put to shame 
the plants in the window, and the bright world 
out of doors, with a thousand wheedling tongues, 

39 



40 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

teases us to go forth and yield ourselves to her 
sweet seductions. We hesitate, we waver, we 
finally surrender ourselves to beauty's blandish- 
ments. Let him who is proof against them cast 
at us the first stone. 

Never does one feel his kinship with Mother 
Earth so strongly as in the early days of spring- 
time. If our hearts are in the right place, there is 
a prodigious tugging at the strings thereof, and we 
feel like being at peace with all the world and his 
wife. 

The attractions of the spring opening are many 
and varied. To enumerate a few of them : Corals 
are the regulation jewelry for the maples, and so 
they depend from every available twig and 
branch. Standing aloof from its sisters, in lonely 
state, is a tree of the weeping-willow kind, whose 
shining, drooping wands are beginning to be 
faintly fledged with verdure. 

A stone's throw away, the crocuses still hold 
their own despite the blast's rude buifetings, 
while the yellow daffodils unfold their crinkled 
petals in the near neighborhood of the poet's nar- 
cissus. But a sweeter, wilder beauty is to be 
found in woodland ways. Like the night, the 
steep incline of the river bank has a thousand eyes, 



THE OUT-DOOR WORLD 41 

owing to the blue-eyed hepaticas growing so lav- 
ishly over its brown face. 

The graceful shoots of the wild raspberry bend 
across the path, their reddish-brown surface cov- 
ered with a plum-like bloom, through which the 
tender leaflets are shyly peeping. Hard by is a 
meadow carpeted with green plush, which Spring's 
handmaids, the air, the sun and the showers, have 
spread for her coming. 

A stroll through the orchard is not without its 
pleasures. The low stature and roundish, com- 
fortable forms of the apple trees, so far from re- 
pelling, seem rather to invite familiarity. Just 
now, every scraggy limb, every knotted branch, 
bursting with leafage, has become a study for an 
artist, and to some eyes they take on a beauty sec- 
ond only to that which will be theirs when their 
picturesque ruggedness is buried in the snowy 
foam of apple blossoms. 

There is no mistake about it, the earth has awak- 
ened from her long nap, or rather it is a resurrec- 
tion at which we are assisting. The angels of 
springtime have rolled away the stone from Na- 
ture's tomb; she has risen, and with noiseless tread 
flits over hill and wold, under ashen arcades of the 
forest, and by the river's brink, breathing the 
beauty of verdure everywhere. 



42 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

The van of the great bird army has entered into 
possession of its own again. There is a whir of 
wings, a swift darting from tree to tree and gen- 
eral tuning up of feathered throats that promises 
well for the musical chanting of bird matins and 
vespers. Amid such light, color, movement and 
song, where is the gloomy philosopher who would 
dare to ask, "Is life worth living?" 



A SUMMER SIESTA 



A SUMMER SIESTA 

THE long, languorous days of August have 
cast their spell over the earth. Little by 
little, nature yields to the seductive influence and 
sinks into her summer sleep. Lazily-languid like 
southern beauties, the hours follow each other in 
slow succession. A faint haze falls veil-like over 
the land, where a perfect summer day — a gorgeous 
tropic flower — has blossomed from the calyx of 
the dawn. 

In the sky alone is infinite variety. Yesterday, 
it bent above the earth a hemisphere of thinnest 
turquoise, fleckless as those Tuscan skies travelers 
delight to recall. Looking upward, I watch the 
sunlight as it spills itself upon the foliage, and I 
see the oak leaves making argent-green arabesques 
upon the blue of the sky. 

To-day a chain of cloud-cliffs guards the coast 
of some cloudland Albion, while all below is a 
faint blue suggestive of leagues of ocean that had 
fallen asleep at their feet. But the moments 
stealthily move on. An hour ago, the sky, like a 

45 



46 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

sea, was covered with cloud-yachts, all their white 
wings spread. Now, I look up from my book, and 
lo! the airy shallops have sailed away to far har- 
bors of the nether world. 

Stroll where I will, the river like a magnet, 
sooner or later, draws me to its brink. Brimming 
and brown, it glides silently on, a web of wrinkled 
silk spread for some royal progress. There are 
trees along its banks and reflected trees in its 
waters. I hear, now and then, the stream's low, 
musical gurgle as it speaks in passing to the stones 
and tree-roots that would bar its onward flow. 
The willows nestle far out on the water, as if, be- 
guiled by its lazy lulling, they had fallen asleep 
upon its surface. 

Along its banks, the wild grapevine runs riot 
over the low trees and bushes. It winds its long 
arms round and round them; rings each leaf-stem 
with its tendrils, finally covers them past all recog- 
nition with a new foliage. Here it forms a bower, 
leaf-thatched and sequestered, a fit abode for some 
shy nymph of the woods; there, it clambers up 
that tall maple sapling, clasping it in a leafy em- 
brace, its long wavy sprays falling downward, 
until the effect is that of a cataract of green foli- 
age. 

A vagrant breeze, a baby zephyr, escaped with 



A SUMMER SIESTA 47 

its lustier brothers from the cave of ^olus, stirs 
the tree-tops, making the feathery locust leaflets 
break into multitudinous twinklings; the oaks 
sigh faintly and the aspen leaves, all a-tremble, 
show their silvery side. 

Over all the land, the activity of the months of 
flower and song is replaced by a brooding peace. 
The metallic whir of insect life pierces the hot 
silence. Most of the winged minstrels that so 
gaily chanted their matins and vespers when the 
year was young, have dropped out from the feath- 
ered choir; indeed all birdland might almost be 
"in retreat," so general is the silence. 

And yet, now and again, one or two bird voices 
are heard. The song sparrow lilts blithely from 
bush and garden wall. The goldfinch, oared by 
swift wings, rises and dips in the aerial sea, drop- 
ping his musical triplets as he skims the "upper 
deep." The now mute robins, sociable and con- 
fiding to the last, make their own of our lawns, 
to-day even to the number of a baker's dozen. 
As these are days of political bolters and conven- 
tions, the unusually large number provokes the 
query : Is it a bird convention, and are these dele- 
gates, met to nominate a ticket for some high func- 
tionary of robinland? 

All the robins wear waistcoats of the same 



48 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

color, though, from their faded condition, they 
must have seen service in other campaigns. Look- 
ing more closely, I decide that this is not a 
bird convention, after all, and incline strongly to 
the opinion that it is a lawn party, with the attrac- 
tions of dancing a feature of the programme. Any 
fair-minded observer would justify me in this 
opinion, judging by the minuet-like movements 
of the birds. The maneuvers are, it must be ad- 
mitted, robbed somewhat of grace by the haste 
with which the "dancers" execute the call of the 
supposed floor manager; however, this is com- 
pensated for by the long pauses between. 

But this theory also I am forced to dismiss as 
untenable, in view of the fact that simultaneously 
all the robins begin viciously to prod the ground. 
Before I can reach a satisfactory conclusion, the 
sound of approaching footsteps gives the signal 
for every robin to take to his wings, and the lawn 
is again silent and deserted. 

My birds having flown, I betake me to the ros- 
ary circle, in the heart of which Trinity Arbor 
stands swathed in clinging vines, with the cups of 
the scarlet honeysuckle gleaming therefrom like 
curling flames. A few steps away, the hydrangea 
inflorescence, luxuriant beyond words, bends low 
its weight of beauty over the green turf — its very 



A SUMMER SIESTA 49 

attitude an object lesson to the effect that the 
truly great are truly humble. 

Yonder the Assumption lilies, white as no fuller 
on earth can make white, draw me with their fra- 
grance and charm, and I seem to hear a voice that 
once floated over the blue waves of Genezareth 
saying in tones of silvery sweetness: "Consider 
the lilies of the field." 

Glancing upward, I see the red berries of the 
mountain ash gleam among the leaves, like tiny 
cardinal birds in a cage of latticed green, and 
across the road the apple trees are ablush with 
rosy fruit. Summer has fulfilled its promise in 
letter and in spirit; its dream is over. What 
though an evening sadness lingers round its going, 
we see it depart, not with hearts wholly bowed 
down, for friend-like it will return, to lay again 
at our feet — God willing — its largess of loveli- 
ness. 



A FEW BIRD NOTES 



A FEW BIRD NOTES 

IF anything can offset the seductions of the 
morning nap, it is surely the grand open-air 
concert with which ''our sisters the birds," each 
June day-dawn, salute the rising sun. Fired with 
the zeal of the would-be bird student, I ventured 
forth not long since, just as dawn was tinting the 
eastern sky. In every tree-top, grove and hedge- 
row, the birds were holding high carnival, until 
each bit of foliage became a song fountain, so 
recklessly did the singers abandon themselves to 
their mad minstrelsy. 

And yet their madness, like Hamlet's, had 
method in it, for in the apparently hopeless tangle 
of song, the trained ear could recognize the 
peculiar carol of the leading harmony-weavers. 
Half hidden by the broad leaves of the sycamore, 
the brown thrush, moved by the magic of the 
hour, poured out his heart in a solo of ecstatic 
sweetness. Then the gay little song sparrow, 
mounting a twig of the lilac hedge, embroidered 
the musical fabric with a series of trills and 
canary-like cadenzas. 

53 



54 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Not to be out-done by his feathered cousins, the 
restless catbird forgot to mew, and lifting up his 
voice, gave vent to a series of vocal pyrotechnics 
in which, however, the feline note was faintly dis- 
cernible. The robins, too, were out in full force. 
Perched here and there among the maples that line 
the avenue, each member of the family seemed 
impressed with the notion that he had a message 
to the human race, which he proceeded to deliver, 
if a trifle monotonously, at least with a right good 
will. As the red-headed wood-pecker beat a tattoo 
upon the tree trunk, the mournful note of the 
wood-dove came from the shadowy depths of the 
neighboring ravine, giving that touch of sadness 
inseparably connected with every scene of earthly 
beauty. 

While listening to this morning bird revelry, 
the ear caught the whir of wings, the eye noted 
the yellow-coated oriole, fluting cheerily as he 
sped across the blue, and the scarlet tanager, flash- 
ing his bright plumage among the green of the 
foliage. 

But does the charm cease with the mxorning con- 
cert"? The bird lover will answer emphatically, 
no, since it grows by what it feeds on, and he finds 
that once under the spell, it is wellnigh impossible 
to shake it off. So the devotee, armed with pa- 



A FEW BIRD NOTES 55 

tience and a field glass, betakes himself to the 
woods and glades in quest of bird-lore. 

There, much that is curious and interesting 
comes to his knowledge. For instance, he becomes 
conscious that Master Robin when perched upon 
a tree-top, and the same bird taking a stroll across 
the lawn, assume different attitudes toward inquis- 
itive man. He who let fall an incessant shower 
of notes from the swaying branches, when he 
alights upon the turf is strangely silent. His 
method of locomotion is also characteristic. To 
me, there is just a tinge of melancholy connected 
with this promenade of his robin-ship over the 
grass. He is wont to stand motionless as long as 
three minutes, with gaze fixed upon some point in 
the distance, as if waiting and watching for some 
feathered friend who tarries by the way. His 
gait, too, is strangely at variance with his solemn 
demeanor, for, while I watch his maneuvers at a 
respectful distance and through my glass, he be- 
gins to run, at a rate so brisk as to convey the idea 
that he suddenly remembers an engagement with 
a bird-friend and fears to miss the appointment. 

Yet, with all this show of eagerness, he seems 
to think better of it, for a few inches from the 
starting point he stops as suddenly as he set out, 
and resumes his pensive air, as if in trying to solve 



56 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

the problems of robin-life, he had become a trifle 
disillusioned. Still notwithstanding this listless- 
ness which he affects in his aimless ramblings, I 
half suspect it but veils his purpose of securing the 
prey then hiding beneath the sod. 

Among the feathered race, the catbird is an 
odd character. Strolling along the river bank one 
morning, I was lured by the robin-like notes that 
fell from the foliage of a tree, but leveling my 
field glass to the agitated leaves, I discovered that 
I had been deceived by the mimicry of the catbird. 
His slate-hued plumage, changing to plum color in 
the sunlight, stood revealed, and, as if to clinch 
the matter, he betrayed himself by the unmistak- 
able mew to which he owes his name. 

Later in the day, a pair of these birds, taking a 
ramble under the pines and maples of the lawn, 
proved an interesting study. The male bird, in 
form more graceful than his spouse, foraged 
around in the grass, hopping here and there as a 
stray fly invited pursuit. Now he picked up sun- 
dry dry leaves and tossed them disdainfully to 
right and left of him, and now he made frantic 
efforts to snap up a gauzy insect, flying tantaliz- 
ingly near. The insect's course proving too zigzag 
for the bird, he flew to a cedar near by, and in a 
series of mews, seemed to relieve his mind. By 



A FEW BIRD NOTES 57 

way of experiment, a listener treated him to a 
specimen of his own mimicry, until the catbird, 
completely losing his temper, flew away, uttering 
as he took wing, a discordant cry, like the last 
word of a scold ere she takes her departure from 
the scene of a quarrel. 

In a low hedge bordering the avenue, during the 
past summer a pair of thrushes had gone house- 
keeping, and when my attention was first called 
to them, three half -fledged birdlings nestled in the 
family home. The site of the latter was ill- 
chosen, for each pedestrian out for an evening 
walk stopped to inspect the young thrushes, much 
to the distress of the mother-bird, who mounted 
guard from a neighboring post. The male bird, 
summoned by the cries of his spouse, now arrived 
on the scene, carrying the little ones' supper in his 
bill. The twain took possession of a branch over- 
hanging the nest and waited with admirable pa- 
tience for the coast to become clear, when they 
joined their frightened birdlings. 

The next morning, though our visit was an early 
one, we found the birds had flown. An empty 
nest met our disappointed gaze, and though a pair 
of thrushes could be seen flitting in and out of the 
lilac hedge hard by their late home, the bird 
youngsters were nowhere visible. It looked as if 



58 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Mr. and Madame Thrush had resented the un- 
usual prying into their private affairs the evening 
previous, and avoided a repetition of the same by 
removing to other quarters. 

A word about the house wren. A certain May 
morning two seasons ago, I was surprised and de- 
lighted by a bird-song of peculiar sweetness just 
outside my window. Tracing the song to the 
singer, I found the latter to be a tiny brown bird 
of the wren family, who with his mate had opened 
a nursery over the academy porch. That initial 
performance was the prelude to many a delicious 
roundelay poured from the small throat which 
seemed an almost perpetual fount of song, bub- 
bling over with dulcet melody. He has now, per- 
haps, flown to kindlier skies, but his enchanting 
rondels cling to the memory with those of his 
various feathered relatives, by whose notes the 
sweet poetry of summer was set to music. 



BIRDS IN THE BUSH 



BIRDS IN THE BUSH 

THE way of the bird-lover, like that of the 
transgressor, is hard. Far from being a 
primrose path of dalliance, it bristles with diffi- 
culties; yet once under the fascinations of bird- 
dom, there is no shaking off the spell. Some 
spring morning, when all the world is awaking to 
love and beauty, you hear an enchanting song. 
Your heart gives a bound — the true bird-lover 
knows what I mean — at the prospect of renewing 
acquaintance with feathered friends of last year. 
Straightway, the charm takes effect, nor is it 
broken until the last winged loiterer has spread his 
wings for the South. 

As for myself, I surrender at once and uncondi- 
tionally. I am content, if need be, to linger by 
brooksides, to go out into the open, or pull myself 
through incredibly small spaces in hedgerows, if 
only the quest promises success. Sometimes it is 
wisdom to seat oneself at the foot of a tree, where, 
from every leafy branch, every gray twig, melody 
— a very rain of it — drops down. 

6i 



62 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

To gossip a bit concerning my feathered friends. 
This year the robin came early upon the scene, 
preaching his optimistic doctrine of cheer from 
every available tree-pulpit. When, however, he 
wanders in a semi-aimless manner across the lawn, 
he is most provocative of mirth. The gravity of 
his deportment when he falls into those meditative 
pauses of his, is in ridiculous contrast with his 
undignified gait when in pursuit of an insect on 
the wing. 

The other day Master Robin, strolling along 
the grass, drew near the lilac hedge and gazed 
perhaps a trifle too curiously within. As if resent- 
ing this prying upon her domestic concerns, out 
darted a thrush. Thereupon followed a good deal 
of billing, but a strict regard for the truth compels 
me to add, no cooing. The robin doubtless saw — 
if robins reason — that the thrush was prepared to 
make a spirited stand for his rights. If he had 
a legal mind, perhaps he reflected that possession 
is nine points of the law, and, so with a well- 
assumed air of indifference — I had almost said a 
yawn — his robinship wisely turned away and re- 
sumed his meditative meanderings. 

The black bird, or, to be more scientific, the pur- 
ple grackle, is a bird not so fond of the bush that 
he is unwilling to spend half his time upon the 



BIRDS IN THE BUSH 63 

grass, especially if it afford good foraging ground. 
In form he is symmetrical. He wears a suit of 
conventional black — bronze in certain lights — his 
head and neck being clad in glossy purple, bril- 
liantly iridescent in the sunlight. His gait, alas ! 
is something of a waddle and he expresses his feel- 
ings in a voice that suggests the filing of saws, or 
as if he had suffered from chronic bronchitis, pro- 
nounced incurable by the physicians of birddom. 
At St. Mary's, the evergreens of the rosary circle 
are his habitat and he flits about like a bird of 
ill-omen. I like him not. 

In striking contrast to the grackle is the yellow 
warbler, the daintiest bit of featherhood that flies. 
His taste is esthetic. He shows it by his selection 
of a summer home. In early May, right up among 
the nodding plumes of lilac lane, he builds his 
nest. Like a winged and animated daffodil blend- 
ing yellow with the pale green of spring, he darts 
hither and yon. A gayer, livelier little sprite does 
not exist. There he is now, skimming low over 
the lawn. Now he vaults over the lilac hedge, 
trilling his saucy snatch of song, piercing in its 
sweetness. 

Not long since I watched the evolutions of a 
pair of these living sunbeams. They were evi- 
dently out for a frolic. They chased each other 



64 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

in mad revelry, cutting in mid-air a series of cir- 
cles, ellipses, triangles and tangents that would 
delight the eye and heart of a mathematician. 
Just when affairs seemed coming to a crisis, they 
cut a few parting capers and disappeared within 
the shrubbery. 

The American goldfinch, with his yellow dress, 
black cap, wings and tail, is another feathered 
mite that easily wins his way to our hearts. The 
other day I saw one of those wild canaries, as 
they are called, rocking on the withered limb of a 
tree that hangs over the St. Joseph River, while a 
stiff breeze buffeted and bent the tall oak to which 
he clung. Yet there he sat and sang, regardless of 
wind and weather. 

The orchard, especially when it wears its robe 
of white petals faintly flushed with rose, is a para- 
dise for goldfinches. The observer has but to seat 
himself at the foot of one of those huge bouquets 
— the apple trees — and half a dozen or more are 
sure to flutter into view, singing as they take their 
undulating flight and so to say, looping the trees 
with music. 

The brown thrush — alack ! that the hermit and 
wood thrushes waste their heavenly notes upon the 
silence of dim woodlands — the brown thrush 
guards his nest with jealous care. He is past mas- 



BIRDS IN THE BUSH 65 

ter in the tricks by which he eludes pursuit to the 
family abode. In and out of the shrubbery he 
glides, and just as I promise myself that the nest 
is in sight, I part the bushes and find — nothing! 

But if he conceals his domestic arrangements 
from the public eye, when he wishes to give the 
world a specimen of his lyrical accomplishments, 
he mounts the topmost twig of a tall tree. From 
this coign of vantage and as if courting attention, 
he treats you to his entire repertory. His style is 
brilliant and florid. Now he seems to scold, but it 
is a musical scolding and you forgive him. Then 
he gives utterance to what seems to my ear like an 
imperative "come here, come here!" 

Next follows a sharp "tut, tut," as if express- 
ing contempt for some inaudible remark of his 
spouse. For a bird, he has wonderful staying 
powers. I have watched him for wellnigh half 
an hour at a stretch, as with tail at a right angle 
to his red-brown back, he sprinkled the sward with 
melody. Some of his amorous notes would dis- 
count the proverbial blandishments of a Celtic 
lover. His song over, he drops to earth with the 
very poetry of motion. 

The catbird has his admirers. I am not one of 
them, though I grant him a gracefully-molded 
form, clad in a trim, quaker-like garb of slate. 



66 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

His movements seem stealthy and sly, and to me, 
this is the chief blot on his 'scutcheon. His tem- 
per, too, is, I fancy, uncertain, if one may judge 
by the rasping sounds that proceed from his quar- 
ters. In fact, these birds can make the gloaming 
hideous with their "cat-calls," or hidden in the 
thick leafage, give utterance to witching notes 
which, if unaccompanied by the feline mew, 
would have a sorcery all their own. 

Ornithologists seem to consider the rose- 
breasted grosbeak a true rara avis. If so, we 
who dwell near the St. Joseph River are favored. 
Any day I stroll to its banks my eyes are regaled 
by the sight of his black-and-white coat, while 
over his vest he wears a rose-carmine shield. The 
flush of color extending under the wings suggests, 
when he is in flight, the rose lining of a lady's 
mantle. His beak is clumsy — nay, it is gross, yet 
one forgets this as he listens to the bubbling, liquid 
notes that drip from it — notes blithe enough, yet 
having a slightly reminiscent quality. 

"The scarlet oriole's wooing call 
Reiterate rings through the gray-gold air," 

I catch myself repeating as, day after day, I listen, 
enamored, to the plaintive fluting of the Bal- 
timore oriole. He is not chary of his beauty — 



r BIRDS IN THE BUSH 67 

this gorgeous fellow in feathers — but lets the eye 
of the bird-lover feast upon his brilliancy until 
that individual is satisfied. Watch him as he flits 
in and out among the leaves of yonder tree. With 
black head and orange-red breast against the ten- 
der green of the foliage, he looks not unlike a 
tongue of flame tipped with jet. 

His is your true love-lorn voice. First there is 
the wooing call with its touch of plaintive plead- 
ing. He is a persistent wooer, but his song, even 
when most energetic, has a minor strain. Now it 
is clear, flutelike, amorous, but always a little 
dashed with melancholy, until tne listener's heart 
almost aches for very sympathy with this lover in 
plumes. One is forced to conclude that the fem- 
inine bird-heart that can resist him must be made 
of unimpressionable stuff indeed. 

And what of the scarlet tanager, that lyrical bit 
of the tropics^ Brilliantly scarlet as to head and 
body, black as to wings and tail, he compels ad- 
miration. Rare, like all precious things he seems 
to be, and thrice only this year has he come within 
my field of vision. But he is an impressionist and 
his beauty and grace defy forgetfulness. 

In a tangled copse where the river rolls with its 
most sinuous grace, I first saw the indigo bunting. 
The start of delight the sight of him gave me, 



68 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

thrice and four times repaid the fatigues of that 
botanical walk. With heaven's own color on his 
head and breast, he looked as if he had soared 
aloft to the blue and dipped his plumage in the 
sky's azure. A song, bright, dulcet and low, com- 
pleted the charm, and then and there I lost my 
heart to the indigo bunting. 

Many other birds there are in bush and on the 
wing that have sung themselves into my good 
graces concerning which I must perforce be silent. 
Since they so appeal to our poor human hearts I 
cannot but think that they, of all the lower crea- 
tion, are God's darlings. Did not the Boy-Christ 
— so runs the legend — once mold a bird in clay 
and send it singing and soaring from his dear 
hand'? 

Are you gay-hearted? Then go forth and exult 
with the feathered lyrists. Are you a trifle sad 
with something like an ache tugging at your heart- 
strings? Then more than ever go forth and let 
the birds sing away your sorrow. 



A BUNCH OF WILD FLOWERS 



A BUNCH OF WILD FLOWERS 

THE members of the flower aristocracy dwell 
for the most part in the heat-laden atmos- 
phere of the conservatory. They have beauty of 
form; brilliant or delicate dyes stain their petals; 
their very breath maketh glad the nostrils; but 
when all is told, they do not appeal to us with the 
winning sweetness of their sister blooms — the wild 
flowers of meadow and woodland. For this 
reason, we accept the first invitation of incense- 
breathing spring and hasten right merrily to those 
secluded nooks where wild flowers most do con- 
gregate. 

Changeful April, a smile on her lip and a tear 
in her eye, is holding her brief sway over the 
earth; there is a stir in the woods and the robin's 
cry breaks the silence of songless days; there is a 
balminess in the air that caresses the cheek as if 
with the sweep of downy wings and everything 
speaks of the new birth of the flowers. 

Sauntering along the bluff overlooking the St. 
Joseph River, the glance is caught by the white 

71 



72 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

gleam of the blood-root. A few days of sunshine 
has coaxed it from the earth, but as it lifts its 
snowy head above the ground we see that it is 
closely wrapped in a pale green cloak — the deeply- 
lobed leaf of the parent plant. Soon the folds 
fall away from the white beauty within, and the 
latter swells into a blossom, discarding as it ex- 
pands the tan-colored vesture of its two sepals. 
Take a long lingering look at its pure petals and 
golden heart; it will be absent at your next stroll, 
for it is transitory as fair : the first rude wind will 
shatter its loveliness. 

Opening its blue eyes, sometimes near a late 
snow-bank, smiles up to us the hepatica, its beauti- 
ful azure certainly stolen from summer skies. One 
drawback it has, to be sure — its foliage is not in 
keeping with its azure beauty, for it must, per- 
force, content itself with last year's rusty growth 
until sometime after the blossoms have appeared, 
when new leaves begin to uncurl themselves. 
With the herbarium-maker it finds special favor. 
Transferred from the sunny hillside to the spot- 
less page, it seems to take kindly to its new quar- 
ters, and when in company with a goodly number 
of its fellows, they stand out from the white back- 
ground with charming effect. 



A BUNCH OF WILD FLOWERS 73 

That flower-lover, Bryant, singing of his boy- 
hood haunts, says: 

"Within the woods 
Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast 
A shade, gay circles of anemones 
Danced on their stalks." 

Here, too, in our Indiana woods, as Spring 
hastens up from the south, they make her path 
bright, for thousands of white anemones star the 
green turf, and the eager gatherer pauses in sheer 
bewilderment before their profusion. But high on 
the river bank, as if courting the rude blast, are 
oftenest found the pale purple variety, or the 
delicate pink blooms of this same wild flower. 
The breezes that wrinkle the waters below, sweep 
up with added force; our flower, apparently 
fragile as fair, bends, sways and quivers, but 
finnly anchored to the ground it holds its position 
and after the storm our eyes are greeted as before, 
by the tremulous beauty of the slender-stemmed 
anemone. 

The purslane family boasts a beauteous mem- 
ber, as, for that matter, what family does not? 
Let me give its points, good, bad and indifferent: 
stem often reclining; leaves two, opposite, long, 
narrow; flowers white with pink veins, or pink 



74 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

with deeper colored veins, growing in loose clus- 
ters; sepals two, petals five. What flower-lover 
does not know that this is a word-picture of the 
spring beauty? This blossom opens its pinkish 
petals in April or May, wasting its sweetness on a 
brook's edge or fringing the wet woods. The 
dainty flower is sensitive to weather changes and 
closes should the sky become overcast, when only 
the most brilliant sunlight can coax it to show its 
blushing face. 

"The lily blows a bugle call of fragrance o'er 
the lea," sings the Hoosier poet, but doubtless it 
was the stately gleaming chalice beloved of the 
florist that inspired his muse. There is another 
flower by botanists called the trillium, but known 
to the elect — the enthusiastic wild-flower gatherer 
— by the sweeter name, white wood-lily. This ex- 
quisite flower unveils its snowy beauty to the sun- 
light that may sift through the feathery foliage of 
the spring woods. Above the whorl formed by 
the three ovate leaves, it lifts its head, with some- 
thing of its aristocratic cousin's stately grace, or 
again it shyly droops over its green vesture, like 
a sweet rustic lass in the presence of the great. 
Borne from its woodland home, it submits with 
a good grace to its new environment, — a vase and 



A BUNCH OF WILD FLOWERS 75 

fresh, cool water, — and for many days will glad- 
den the eye with its shy loveliness. 

Under the murmuring pines and in light sandy 
soil grows another wildwood beauty. Beneath 
last year's dead brown leaves it hides, with its 
clustering sisters, but its fragrant breath betrays 
its presence and soon the trailing arbutus lies re- 
vealed in all its pink waxiness. New Englanders 
call these sweet bloomlets "mayflowers," and 
Whittier is responsible for the statement that 
these were the first blossoms to greet the Pilgrims 
after the fearful winter of 1620. Hence their 
name, in honor of the historic ship and because 
of their season of flowering. 

In the drama of Cymbeline^ we read that when 
Cloten would play the wooer, he assails his lady's 
ear with the song: 

. "Hark, hark ! the lark at Heaven's gate sings 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chalked flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes." 

Thus embalmed in the amber of Shakspearean 
verse is the marsh marigold, since marybuds, so 
says competent authority, are identical with the 



76 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

gay marigolds that every April border our springs 
and gladden our wet meadows. How often, in 
search of daintier blooms, we have picked our care- 
ful steps over this golden pavement, challenged by 
their very brilliancy to make them part of our 
floral spoil! 

The columbine, happy combination of red and 
gold, loves inaccessible nooks. There perched upon 
some rocky ledge, it shines, jewel-like, upon the 
despoiler, tempting him to perilous feats that he 
may make its loveliness his own. The beauty of 
its vase-like, nectar-laden petals is equaled only 
by its delicate sepals, its pendulous stamens and 
pistils, all uniting to make the perfection of its 
form. Under its spell was Emerson when he 
wrote : 

"A woodland walk, 
A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush, 
A wild rose or rock-loving columbine 
Salve my worst wounds." 

When "the sweet south breathes o'er a bank of 
voilets, stealing and giving odor," we direct our 
steps thereto, for who does not know the spot 
where the nodding violets grow*? There, spread 
out like a carpet, they lie; we revel in their pro- 
fusion; delight in their gentle beauty; make them 



A BUNCH OF WILD FLOWERS 77 

our prisoners and bear home this bit of woodland 
charm to gladden other hearts. Perhaps of all the 
children of the woods, these best suggest the dawn- 
ing year, and certainly none are more closely knit 
to the days when life was full of promise. 

Tangled in the long grass of the roadside, or 
giving a touch of rustic grace to the zigzag fence 
of the country lane, gleam the pale pink stars 
of the wild rose. Scott assures us that "the rose 
is fairest when 'tis washed with morning dew," 
and as our ramble brings us face to face with these 
lovely blooms in whose hearts tremble the "limpid 
tears of night," we quite agree with him. We 
gather it despite its thorny surroundings and add 
it to our growing cluster. Then with heroic ef- 
fort we resist the fragment summons of many an- 
other forest blossom, pursuing our homeward way 
over a path that nature if not man has strewn 
with flowers. 



FLOWER-LORE 



FLOWER-LORE 

IN the lovely pageant that greets our eyes as 
we stroll along the river bank in the bright 
May-days, the flowering dogwood plays an im- 
portant part. In our locality it often becomes a 
tree of goodly dimensions, looking like a huge 
bouquet as it stands in white relief against the 
delicate green of the budding maples. The cornel 
family, of which it is a member, boasts a classic 
association. Perhaps near of kin to our Indiana 
species was that which Virgil tells us grew from 
the heart of the murdered Polydorus, and whose 
shoots so strongly resisted the efforts of "pious 
^neas" to uproot them. 

Be that as it may, our representative of the fam- 
ily wears a showy involucre of four petal-like 
leaves which is commonly mistaken for the blos- 
som itself, but in reality is only the cream-colored 
setting for the small greenish flowers that form 
the clustering center. 

In the early spring, before the surrounding trees 
have put on their green drapery, another flower- 

8l 



82 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

ing shrub — called by the uninitiated, a tree — 
dawns ghostlike upon our vision. Its white- 
petaled blossoms grow in loose racemes, with a 
fleecy, fringy effect, fair to look upon, but shorn 
of half their beauty if severed from the par- 
ent shrub. The whole startling apparition bears 
the prosaic name, Shad bush. 

Yonder is a tree, upon whose bare, gaunt limbs 
swarms of purplish-red butterflies seem to have 
alighted. You approach cautiously, but there is 
no flutter of the half-folded wings, for the seem- 
ing butterflies are in reality the papilionaceous 
flowers of the Judas tree, and will stay till you 
come for them. "How chances it that the tree 
bears a name so ill-omened?" is often asked. The 
only answer given is that of the old writer, Ge- 
rarde, who quaintly says: "This is the tree 
whereon Judas did hang himself and not on the 
elder tree as it is said." 

Leaving behind us these mid-air bouquets, we 
enter the inviting precincts of a shadowy copse. 
There, silently addressing his flower audience, 
stands a certain pulpit orator whose name is a 
household word — viz., Jack-in-the-pulpit. Only 
his sturdy head is visible above the enclosure, but 
peering behind the latter, we find that he wears 



FLOWER-LORE 83 

for clerical robe a garment of stamens and pistils 
extending to his feet. The elaborate pulpits in 
our city churches cannot bear comparison with 
that erected in the silent woods. Notice the 
beauty of the curves, the graceful, flowing out- 
line of Jack's pulpit. Sometimes his sounding 
board is of a light green, veined with a darker 
tint, and again it is stained with purple, caught, 
says the old legend, beneath the cross on the day 
of the crucifixion. 

The May apples have for some days raised their 
green umbrellas, as their drooping, peltate leaves 
are popularly called. Snugly hidden under these 
same umbrellas, they guard their snowy complex- 
ion from the too ardent sun; you will miss them 
if you are loath to bend, for they are hardly vis- 
ible otherwise ; it is, in fact, a case where you must 
stoop to conquer. 

Strolling through the May woods one is sure 
to find great patches of the dark blue blooms of 
the greek valerian, the latter bending gracefully 
over the heavily-laden stems. The botanists de- 
scribe them as "campanulate," advisedly, for their 
many-blossomed clusters suggest to the imagina- 
tive mind nothing so much as a chime of bells. 
To carry out the illusion, their pendulous sta- 



84 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

mens, hanging below the edge of the nodding co- 
rolla, may be likened to bell clappers, making 
fairy music for the surrounding flowers. 

With strange inconsistency, the pretty and sug- 
gestive name, wake-robin, has been given to a 
spring flower possessing but few claims to beauty. 
However, as it unfurls its signal of three crimson 
petals to the breeze, it gives a vivid dash of color 
to the somber surroundings of the dim woodland, 
and thus serves as a foil for its less showy neigh- 
bors. 

"Blue, papilionaceous, in a long raceme," says 
the botanist when he would describe the bright 
clusters of wild lupine that make themselves so 
much at home in the sandy soil along our river. 
This is the flower about which Thoreau writes so 
enthusiastically. He says: "The lupine is now 
in its glory. It paints a whole hill-side with its 
blue, making such a field as Proserpina might have 
wandered in. Its leaf was made to be covered 
with dewdrops. I am quite excited by the pros- 
pect of blue flowers in clumps — such a profusion 
of the heavenly, the Elysian color, as if they were 
the Elysian fields !" 

When Wordsworth wished to convey an idea 
of the obduracy of one Peter Bell he says : 



FLOWER-LORE 85 

"In vain through every changeful year 
Did nature lead him as before; 
A primrose by the river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more." 

Not, however, of the flower made famous by- 
Wordsworth do we write, but of its American 
cousin, our own evening primrose. Walking along 
the roadside in the summer twilight, we are pleas- 
antly conscious of a faint, delicious fragrance on 
the evening air. Tracing home this odorous 
breath, we are surprised to find ourselves face to 
face with a tall, rank-growing plant, bearing al- 
ternate, lance-shaped leaves and resplendent with 
a mass of fragile yellow flowers. By a seeming 
caprice of nature, these blooms unfold their pet- 
als to the moon and stars, but when morning 
comes, their delicate beauty has taken flight, and 
we see only faded flowers. However, the object 
of their brief existence has been accomplished, for 
we are told that their fertilization is secured 
through the visit of the pink night-moth, the lat- 
ter being led to the pale yellow petals by their 
mute but fragrant invitation. 

Apostrophizing the flower-de-luce, or blue flag, 
Longfellow breaks into melody thus : 



86 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

"Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance 
Thou dost not toil nor spin; 
But makest glad and radiant with thy presence, 
The meadow and the lin." 

Among wild flowers, so regal is its color and bear- 
ing, it seems a fitting emblem for a royal house. 
In the palmy days of France's glory, its embroid- 
ered petals, shining rainbow-like from many a 
silken banner, often led the gallant and heroic to 
victory or mayhap "to dusty death." This flower 
is especially beloved of bees, and it is a curious 
sight to watch them sway for a moment on the 
recurved sepals and then disappear within the cup 
in search of hidden nectar. 

When June is on her rose-wreathed throne, a 
slender plant hung with tremulous flowers springs 
up along the high bank of the river. Its corolla, 
a dark blue, nods from a hair-like stalk and its 
dainty beauty tempts us to wrest it from its wind- 
swept ledge. But it seems to resent the profane 
touch of its gatherer, for though steadily bear- 
ing up in the teeth of a gale, snatched from its 
native soil, it immediately withers and dies. We 
call it the harebell, and like to believe that it is 
a near relative of those highland bluebells whose 
praises the Scotch poets are so fond of singing. 

But to do even scant justice to a tithe of the 



FLOWER-LORE 87 

flowers that clothe our brown earth as with a blos- 
som-robe, is beyond our art. This much is cer- 
tain : he who is content to receive his wild-flowers 
at second hand, knows not what pleasure he misses 
thereby. Would you have more than a nodding 
acquaintance with the flowery creation? Then 
you must seek its shy members in their favorite 
haunts. 



CONCERNING COLOR 



CONCERNING COLOR 

MUCH has been said and written in regard 
to the music of nature's orchestra — a mu- 
sic woven mainly of bird-notes, wind-song and 
the deep basso of the ocean. Without seeking to 
underrate its spell, let me call attention to a har- 
mony of another kind — the color harmony whose 
silent music appeals to the eye alone. This color- 
music boasts a vast compass, a gamut of amazing 
possibilities, beside which the chromatic scale of 
music proper, to us of the laity, seems to sink into 
insignificance. 

To trace these color tones to their source. The 
outer world is flooded with sunlight. I coax a 
single beam into my room through an aperture in 
the shutter, and placing a prism in its path, it 
gives up its beautiful secret — the brilliant colors 
that blend to form the rainbow's arch lie revealed. 
But this is not all, for between these seven pri- 
mary notes of the color-scale come the intermedi- 
ate shades, like an almost infinite number of flats 
and sharps of the colors which they precede or 
follow. 

91 



92 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Thus every object in creation wears one of these 
colors, or some combination of them, in accordance 
with the well-known law that bodies possess the 
power of reflecting certain colored rays of light, 
while absorbing all the others. The tulip cup that 
stands in the vase before me is yellow, because 
while drinking in or absorbing all the other rays of 
the white light in which it is bathed, it throws 
back the yellow ones only. Its neighbor flaunts 
a brilliant crimson, since owing to a mysterious 
something in its atomic or molecular structure, it 
prefers to appropriate the other colored rays, re- 
flecting only the red ones. 

Puzzling indeed, and mysterious as its parent 
light, is color, but blot it from the face of na- 
ture, snatch the azure from the sky, the emerald 
from the grass and foliage, the blush from the 
cheek, and how gruesome would be the world! 
In the springtime, the note of green is the domi- 
nant one ; the cloudless arch supplies the blue, and 
as summer advances, the other notes of the scale 
are struck by waving grain fields, flower-enameled 
lawns and dim woodlands. 

Autumn comes on apace. Then indeed is the 
color-gamut sounded from its lowest note to the 
top of its compass. Of these countless tones, half- 
tones and quarter-tones — to indulge in musical 



CONCERNING COLOR 93 

phraseology — is woven that magnificent color-har- 
mony which ravishes the eye in gazing upon the 
autumnal woods. It is the swan-song of color 
sung by the dying year. 

Some one playing with fancy has not inaptly 
called birds the flowers of the air, and as they 
soar upward, many of them are not unlike winged 
blossoms, contributing no small share to the bril- 
liant dyes with which nature decks herself. As if 
to make amends for their silence, birds that have 
no song in their throats, dazzle the beholder by the 
brilliancy of their plumage. Thus in the sun- 
drenched tropics, the lyre-bird, the peacock and the 
bird-of-paradise look like so many fragments of 
that arch that spans the sky during a summer 
shower. 

Another domain in which color reigns supreme 
is the modern boudoir. Would you be convinced 
of the fact, invade its charming precincts. You 
pause at the threshold to feast the eye on the 
beauty of silken hangings in whose texture the 
flush of the pink is faintly visible; on walls and 
ceilings to which pale apple-green gives the key- 
note; on borders where olive blends with pink in 
happy harmony; and gazing, your pronounce it a 
symphony in color. 

In yonder casket is a sparkling, shimmering 



94 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

mass. Magnetized by its beauty, you draw near 
to see the amethyst press its violet facets against 
the rose-cut diamond, the latter flashing prismatic 
hues at every angle. There the velvety emerald 
nestles near the glowing ruby, the modest pearls 
throw off a faint iridescence, while the opal bears 
a miniature rainbow in its heart. If you are im- 
aginative, you will pronounce it a casket of crys- 
tallized color. 

The cunning weaver of silks understands this 
color-charm and he lays the three kingdoms un- 
der tribute to furnish him with hues to catch the 
glance of the beauty-loving. Calling science to his 
aid, he makes the unsightly block of coal yield up 
the beautiful colors hidden therein, and, bathed 
in the aniline dyes, the silkworm's thread takes 
on those hues that prove so irresistible when from 
the shop window they tempt the unwary. 

A painter dips his brush in the fount of color, 
and genius guiding his hand, the visions that haunt 
his waking dreams start into immortal life at each 
brush-stroke. Such is the potency of color that the 
radiant heavens, the somber earth are created 
anew upon the canvas, and seemingly even lurid 
flames are fanned to life by the sweep of his brush. 
Standing before the great masterpieces of color, 
the rapt gazer fancies he hears the song of the 



CONCERNING COLOR 95 

sapphire waves; his ear catches the rustle of the 
painted leaves, and on the wings of color he flies 
heavenward where dwells the Mother-Maid whose 
celestial face painters never weary of limning. 

But what of the pomp and pageantry of the 
western sky when the setting sun paints the heav- 
ens with the "fading hues of even'"? Surely, 
there on the sky's concave is the sanctity of color 
writ large, or better, perhaps, then is sung a grand 
Te Deum by the seven daughters of light to Him 
at whose word light itself sprang into existence. 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY 



IT is a curious fact that precious stones play an 
important part, not only in romance, but in 
the history of the human race. The secret lies, 
perhaps, in that love for the beautiful inherent in 
man's nature which fixes its affections upon gems 
and jewels as the least fleeting among objects of 
terrestrial beauty. To possess them seems a want, 
not a caprice. Recognizing this fact, poets and 
novelists the world over have woven around them 
their most brilliant romances; have given them, 
in fact, a setting of the finest literary gold. 

Witness Rudyard Kipling in his story of "The 
Naulahka." His hero braves the dangers of the 
poisoned cup, or fronts treachery and death lurk- 
ing behind lattice and bush, and all this in his 
efforts to satisfy one woman's passion for these 
flowers of the mineral kingdom. That cunning 
weaver of intricate plots, Wilkie Collins, felt their 
spell, and communicates it to readers of "The 

99 



loo IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Moonstone," who follow with feverish fascina- 
tion the labyrinthine windings of the story, 
lighted, so to speak, by flashes of the great yellow 
diamond. What reader of "Lorna Dome" does 
not remember the piteous appeal of that ancient 
sinner, Sir Counselor, to John Ridd for posses- 
sion of the diamond necklace: "Oh I for God's 
sake, John, rob me not in this manner. There is 
one jewel there I can look at for hours and see all 
the lights of heaven in it, which I shall never see 
elsewhere. Give me back my jewels or else kill 
me I" 

Again, the sheen of jewels has shed a baleful 
light upon many a historic picture. Especially 
does this love for jewels seem to have been a royal 
passion, and more than one monarch has been 
the slave of the ring. Solomon is said to have 
possessed a magic circlet, to which he was in- 
debted (?) for his power over demons and genii. 
Alexander and Csesar did not disdain the borrowed 
splendor of gems, and Pliny tells us that in the 
days of Roman luxury patricians sipped their 
wine from emerald drinking cups. 

It is on record that when the Eighth Henry of 
England wedded his fourth bride, Anne of Cleves, 
he shone resplendent in diamonds, rubies and 
emeralds, in consequence of which the court wits, 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY loi 

slyly, of course, dubbed him "King of diamonds." 
Elizabet±i, his famous daughter, inherited this 
fondness for jewels, and, the story goes, so far 
forgot her royal state as to stoop to obtain unlaw- 
ful possession of the gems of the ill-fated Mary 
Stuart. 

But, in the history of jewels, nothing is to be 
found quite so dramatic as the celebrated affair 
of the diamond necklace, by which, undeservedly, 
a shade was cast upon the fair name of the unfor- 
tunate Marie Antoinette. Students of history are 
familiar with the story, and who can say how great 
a part it played in precipitating the French revo- 
lution '? 

Their human connection being so patent, what 
of the gems themselves? At the risk of carrying 
coals to Newcastle, we must be a little didactic, 
premising that the coals in this case will be other 
than "black diamonds." As every one knows, the 
real charm and value of a diamond lies in its re- 
markable brilliancy and in the wonderful prismatic 
display of bright and beautiful colors. These are 
constantly fleeing and as constantly returning to 
gladden the eye of the observer, and among all 
the gems thus far known, only the diamond can 
lay claim to this singular property. But the brilli- 
ancy and rainbow-play of the diamond are not so 



102 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

evident by daylight as in certain kinds of artificial 
light, notably that of wax candles, when, as if by 
magic, all its latent beauties are called forth. The 
production of artificial diamonds has been the 
ignis fatuus that has danced before the eyes of 
chemists for ages, but their efforts to crystallize 
carbon have not been attended with the success 
hoped for, as nature still refuses to yield up her 
secret. 

Many who have long been accustomed to re- 
gard the diamond as the queen of gems will be 
surprised to learn that among connoisseurs, the 
ruby occupies a position fast becoming supreme. 
The Greeks called this gem anthrax, or live coal, 
and truly it is not a misnomer. Its color varies 
from the palest rose to the deepest carmine, but 
the most valuable tint is that peculiar shade called 
by jewelers, "pigeon's blood," which is a deep, 
rich red. Unlike the diamond, the composition of 
the ruby is not so well known, hence it may not 
be amiss to state that it is really a variety of 
crystallized alumina, the latter being an oxide of 
the metal, aluminum. 

In the writings of that quaint traveler. Sir John 
Mandeville, among other fabulous stories, we read 
that the royal bed-chamber in the court of the 
Great Khan was lighted by a ruby that illuminated 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY 103 

the apartment with the brightness of day! This 
seems to be a companion story to the fable of the 
ancients that possessors of the gem were insured 
against poison, sadness and evil thoughts. 

The sapphire is identical with the ruby in every 
respect, save that of color. The hues presented 
by this gem vary from a deep regal blue to a 
celestial azure, the last named possessing per- 
fect limpidity and rich, velvety reflections that 
retain their splendid colors by night as well as 
by day. In view of this, we cannot wonder that 
by the Greeks it was thought worthy to be offered 
to Jupiter. Thus might the pen run on indefin- 
itely, singing the praises of these poems in crystal, 
but it were best, perhaps, to leave for future con- 
sideration the other gems in the casket. 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY 



II 



JULES VERNE — name dear to every school- 
boy heart — in one of those wonder books of 
his, makes a certain character give this naive defini- 
tion of a pearl : "To the poet the pearl is a tear 
of the sea; to the ladies it is a jewel of an oblong 
shape, of a brilliancy of mother-of-pearl substance, 
which they wear on their fingers, their necks or 
their ears ; for the chemist it is a mixture of phos- 
phate and carbonate of lime with a little gelatine, 
and lastly, for the naturalist, it is simply a morbid 
secretion of the organ that produces the mother- 
of-pearl among certain bivalves." 

In this definition, comprehensive enough to suit 
every one, the author has collected the prevailing 
views on the subject without really unraveling 
the fascinating mystery of the pearl's formation. 
A product of nature that has puzzled the wisest 
heads of antiquity, it has thus given occasion for 
the wildest conjecture and opinions the most con- 

107 



io8 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

flicting. However, according to the prevailing 
view, these gems are found in the pearl-producing 
oyster shell, and are formed of matter similar to 
the mother-of-pearl which lines its walls. 

To borrow a botanical term, they may be said 
to be exogenous in growth, since they increase 
by concentric layers, and their lovely luster is 
thought to be caused by the friction of the soft 
body of the oyster against the surface of the pearl. 
Though found in the waters of both hemispheres, 
the best specimens of these sea-born gems are 
taken from the Persian Gulf and the Bay of 
Condatchy, near Ceylon. In "Twenty Thousand 
Leagues Under the Sea," Verne — who is nothing 
if not sensational — invests that man of mystery, 
Captain Nemo, with a morbid habit of not only 
going down into the sea in ships, but consigning 
himself to the waves clad in an impervious suit of 
rubber. There, booted and helmeted, he and his 
companions were wont to walk the floor of the 
ocean, seventy-five fathoms below the surface ! 

In one of these submarine promenades, the 
Great Unknown visits the pearl fisheries off the 
island of Ceylon, where was located that wonder- 
ful bivalve, which, he gravely tells us, measured 
two yards and a half in breadth and contained a 
magnificent pearl the size of a cocoanut ! 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY 109 

Quitting the domain of the sensational for that 
of fact, we learn that the best pearls are taken 
from the fleshy part of the oyster near the hinge of 
the shell. Occasionally a bivalve proves to be a 
veritable jewel casket, as in it are sometimes 
found upwards of a hundred pearls of different 
sizes. A disadvantage attached to the wearing of 
pearls is their liability to tarnish, especially if 
worn next the skin, when, of course, their bril- 
liancy is lost. Nor are they like their sister gems, 
incorruptible, but after the lapse of years have 
been known to crumble to dust. 

"Pale, glistening pearls," of which the poet 
sings, have from the remotest ages been looked 
upon as among the most precious of gems. With 
their chaste loveliness and quiet brilliance, they 
are often preferred to the diamond, whose eye- 
dazzling splendor so imperatively demands ad- 
miration. 

As to their abundance, a stream of pearls, so 
to speak, must have flowed through imperial 
Rome, judging from their lavish use in the hey- 
day of the empire. The Roman matrons and 
maids, tired perhaps of wearing them in their dark 
locks, used them in decorating their sandal ties. 
Not to be outdone by this bit of feminine foppery, 
the Emperor Caligula wore pearl-embroidered 



no IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

buskins, and even, as history relates, gave his fa- 
vorite horse a collar of pearls. The story of Cleo- 
patra's folly in dissolving in vinegar a pearl of 
great price, has been told for nineteen centuries, 
but as there are chemists who deny to vinegar 
strength sufficient to dissolve the gem, the anec- 
dote may be relegated to the limbo of exploded 
stories. 

That rainbow-flecked gem, the opal, next 
claims our attention. A compound of silica in 
the amorphous condition, and water, it is one of 
the most beautiful gems in existence. When held 
between the eye and the light it appears of a pale, 
milky-redish blue, but when seen by reflected 
light it displays all the colors of the rainbow in 
flakes or flashes. This jewel seems to be the only 
one, the flaws of which constitute its beauty, as 
its marvelous play of colors is thought to be occa- 
sioned by invisible fissures in the gem. Every 
one knows that when the stone is moved about, 
colors the most exquisite chase each other in rapid 
succession within it, and then it is that the opal 
appears to have actual life in its heart. 

Strange to say, the flashes of color in this stone 
are always more marked on a warm day, and the 
knowledge that heat enhances the brilliancy of 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY in 

the gem, makes the dealer hold it in his hand 
some time before offering it for inspection. 

The Mexican opal loses its beauty when exposed 
to water, and Sir Walter Scott, in his novel, "Anne 
of Geierstein," dexterously avails himself of this 
fact in describing the opal which manifested such 
strange sympathy with all the moods of its beauti- 
ful owner, Hermione. When the fair Persian was 
animated, the opal adorning her tresses shot forth 
a spark or tongue of flame, but on that fatal day 
when the holy water fell thereon, "out from it 
leaped a brilliant spark like a falling star," and 
all its brightness and beauty departed. This gem, 
long looked upon with superstitious dread, is fast 
becoming as popular as it deserves, especially as 
it is the only stone that cannot be imitated. 

The emerald has long held a leading rank in 
the world of precious stones, and is eminently 
worthy of the distinction. It crystallizes in hex- 
agonal prisms, and is said to owe its green color 
to minute quantities of chromic acid which enters 
into its composition. This stone has also its his- 
torical connection. Nero, it is said, viewed the 
gladiatorial combats through an eyeglass of emer- 
ald, and Cortez, on presenting his bride with a 
splendid rose emerald, excited the envy of the 
Spanish queen, whereat he lost caste at court ! 



112 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

The term amethyst is applied to all violet or 
purple quartz crystals, though there are, strictly 
speaking, but two varieties. The oriental ame- 
thyst is really a violet sapphire, while that to 
which the term occidental is given, is merely quartz 
crystal colored with oxide of manganese; how- 
ever, when perfect, it is of a rich hue resembling 
that of a purple grape. In past ages this stone 
was put to a beautiful use, that of engraving, the 
best specimens of which are afforded by the cameo 
"Mithridates," and the bust of Trajan. 

The turquoise, blue as a fragment of a summer 
sky, is not without its admirers. Never occurring 
in the crystalline form, it is found rather in reni- 
form masses, sometimes ranging in color from blue 
to pale green. In the middle ages it was well 
known and highly valued, and to few other stones 
were attributed so many virtues. Even to this 
day the proverb is said to be current in Russia: 
"A turquoise given with a loving hand, carries 
with it happiness and good fortune." This may 
be the cause of the extravagant grief to which 
Shylock abandons himself on discovering that his 
darling turquoise had been carried off by the way- 
ward Jessica. 

Despite the alluring sparkle of the other gems 
that plead for attention, we forego the pleasant 



GEMS OF PUREST RAY 113 

task of singing their praise. Enough has been said 
to account for their never-failing charm and for 
their figuring so conspicuously in human affairs. 
The sacred writers make frequent mention of gems 
and jewels; in fine, even the rapt St. John, in 
describing the surpassing splendor of the heavenly 
Jerusalem, introduces all the jewels that most 
delight the beauty-loving heart of man, until his 
word-picture becomes, so to speak, a dazzling mo- 
saic of gems of purest ray. 



BRANDS OF HUMOR 



BRANDS OF HUMOR 

SOME ONE, wise in his generation, calls 
laughter the salt of life. We so heartily 
endorse this sentiment that, if asked to match 
Sancho Panza's devout wish as to the inventor of 
sleep, we should say: blessings on the one who 
first invented laughter. To be consistent, this 
invocation must, of course, include those provokers 
of laughter, the fun-makers or humorists. And, 
in truth, they deserve that blessings should pursue 
and overtake them. They are benefactors of the 
race, quite as much as those who institute social 
reforms or invent labor-saving machines. 

The dejected 'havior of the visage we all wot 
of, in Shakespeare and out of it, is a thing to be 
deplored. Yet such, as a rule, would be the 
gloomy outlook, had not nature hidden a germ of 
fun in the hearts of most of her children. Ameri- 
cans are, happily, not a phlegmatic race, but 
recognize that real mirth gives a flavor to life. 
And, indeed, true gaiety of heart, to its possessor, 
is equal to ten thousand a year in coin of the re- 

117 



ii8 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

public. It wins friends, often opens the magic 
portals of society, and pads over the rough places 
of life. 

Nor, as some people suppose, is fun of the right 
kind diametrically opposed to piety. On the con- 
trary, genuine merriment has its source in a heart 
at peace with God and the world, and a truly up- 
right heart, as a rule, is a merry one. True, there 
have been good people in this world who bade 
adieu to hilarity early in their career, and there- 
after looked upon life with rueful visages. But 
these are not the ones who lead us to better and 
higher things. Right or wrong, we turn from 
them to the cheery and gay-hearted, who help us 
bravely to front mishaps and defeat, to smile 
through our tears. 

While making a plea for humor, it is not meant 
that one should set up for a professional joker, 
donning the cap and bells. Not at all. We be- 
lieve it quite practical to walk in the serious paths 
of life, occasionally permitting the sunshine of 
humor to light up the shades thereof, resulting 
in something akin to the gray-gold of an April 
sky. 

As regards the fun that, like a gay-colored 
thread, runs through the warp and woof of our 
literature, he must be a very Dry-as-dust who 



BRANDS OF HUMOR 119 

would have it otherwise. That wisdom which 
comes to us in the shape of ponderous tomes, 
"bound in brass and wild boar's hide," we relegate 
to the limbo of the upper shelves of our libraries, 
while the sprightly book lies ready at our hand 
for frequent perusal. 

He is an accomplished student of human nature 
who, by his writing, teaches, while he seems only 
to amuse, who has the skill to cajole us into 
accepting his knowledge and learning because it 
wears a smiling visage. To this class belong 
many of our men of letters. Irving, for example, 
threw upon the literary market a brand of humor 
eminently characteristic. It was at times placid 
even to gravity. But this gravity generally 
masked latent fun; and again, his humor often 
thinly veneered serious purpose. 

As regards the first, the unwary reader was apt 
to take it for downright seriousness. But some 
little twist or turn of phrase, like the twinkle in 
the eye of the speaker, betrayed the fun under- 
neath the grave literary manner, and the secret 
was out. In this half-serious, half-playful man- 
ner, Irving gave his message to the world. His 
most humorous sketches have a substratum of 
seriousness. The author himself pleads guilty to 
this, and admits that even in that artistic bit of 



120 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

restrained humor, the "Stout Gentleman," the 
serious purpose was masquerading in the guise of 
fun. 

If any one possessed the faculty of saying wise 
things in a sportive way, it was Holmes. This 
was no less evident in the easy pleasantry of much 
of his verse, than in his ex-cathedra utterances as 
presiding genius of his celebrated Breakfast Table. 
These dicta have a final, Rome-has-spoken air 
about them that bids defiance to question. The 
muse of Holmes was a foe to humbug, and his 
humor could be caustic when he wished to ridicule 
a false sentiment, custom or fashion out of exist- 
ence. Shrewd observer that he was, he delighted 
to play with subjects, grave or gay, staid or whim- 
sical, and the sparkle of his humor is hardly less 
charming to-day than when his oracular state- 
ments first won the public ear. 

If one desires a specimen of genuine Yankee 
fun, he must seek it in the "Biglow Papers" of 
Lowell. Happy hits, covert humor and bits of 
pleasantry indigenous to the New England soil, 
veil his serious purpose of antagonism to war, 
slavery and pretended patriotism. 

In Whitcomb Riley's dialect poems, we taste 
the peculiar flavor of the western humor. Droll- 



BRANDS OF HUMOR 121 

ery, quaint conceits stamp it, and a freshness sug- 
gestive of the prairies where it is nurtured. 

This is the kind of book one finishes reading 
with something very like a sigh that the author 
did not choose to make it longer. Why^ Be- 
cause it exorcises low spirits and puts us in good 
humor with our kind. Like Sheridan's comedy of 
"The Rivals," it comes to us freighted with gen- 
uine, hearty fun; and so, for the greatest good to 
the greatest number we devoutly hope such books 
will increase and multiply. 



TABLE TALK 



TABLE TALK 

THAT novel in verse, "Lucile," once so much 
the vogue with sentimental young misses, 
contains a few practical lines touching on the 
one thing necessary from a physical point of view 
— the inevitable necessity of dining. Says the 
poet: 

"We may live without love; what is passion but pining? 
But where is the man who can Uve without dining *?" 

Needless to say, the man has not yet been found. 

The fashion of dining is an old one — one that 
came in with Adam, and shows no sign of losing 
favor with the multitude. Granted then that 
people must meet around the social board, why 
not make the meeting a pleasant one, be that meet- 
ing under the family roof-tree or around the shin- 
ing mahogany of a friend. 

"That sounds very well in theory," says some 
one, "but to make practical application of it at 
the first meal of the day, for instance, it is quite 
another matter." Yes, one must admit that the 

125 



126 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

breakfast hour is a severe test of the amiability 
of the average man or woman. We were up late 
the night previous, our sleep was broken, or we 
yielded to the temptation to indulge in a morning 
nap. Resultant of forces: a hasty toilet, ruffled 
temper, disposition to maintain a dignified (^) 
silence, or to indulge only in monosyllables, and 
a general inclination to view the world through 
blue glasses. No chance for conversation there. 
Each one seems to think of the labors ahead, dur- 
ing the course of the day, and keeps his or her 
energy in reserve. 

But the dinner table — that is the place to which 
in addition to a healthy appetite we ought to 
bring our best smiles, our neatest, prettiest toilets. 
Nor is this all. What about the feast of reason 
and the flow of soul? Evidently, if there is to 
be any such feasting or soul-flowing, those who 
gather around the board must bring the requisites 
with them. In the home circle this can be made 
the happiest hour of the day. And if one dines 
abroad, who would not prefer an agreeable neigh- 
bor, one who has opinions of his own — they need 
not be aggressive ones — one who, if not witty 
himself, is at least appreciative of that quality 
in others ? Contrast such a person with one whose 
only contribution to the chit-chat of the dinner- 



TABLE TALK 127 

table is "yes" or "no," or, worse still, who insists 
upon your mounting the witness stand and sub- 
jecting you to a fire of cross-questions. But com- 
parisons are under the ban. 

Those especially who plunge into the social vor- 
tex feel the need of cultivating the conversational 
powers. The presence of a few good talkers at 
a dinner table has often lifted the feast from the 
regions of flat failure to the airy heights of suc- 
cess, and won the undying gratitude of the hostess. 
Other things being equal, your brilliant conversa- 
tionalist is welcomed everywhere. Doors the most 
aristocratic fly open at his approach, and when the 
club gives a dinner to honor the man who has 
made a stir in the world of art or letters, he is 
sure to be bidden to the feast. 

Conversation is a necessity. By the contact of 
mind with mind is the intellectual spark produced. 
Thoughts that seldom leap out to meet the 
thoughts of another through the medium of lan- 
guage, in the end work mental harm. Similar to 
the lightning rod, conversation draws off the super- 
fluous mental electricity and the mind is all the 
clearer therefor. 

Postprandial wit, or the lack of it, has left its 
mark upon literature. Who does not pity Pope, 
compelled to sit silent, among less gifted, but more 



128 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

talkative companions^ I dare say, he would often 
have been willing to barter his power to draw for 
that thousand pounds upon the bank of fine lan- 
guage for a little of the small change of nimble- 
witted conversational ability. Doubtless blunder- 
ing Goldsmith derived scant comfort from the 
knowledge that he "wrote like an angel," when, 
surrounded by the keen minds of that London 
literary club, he found himself talking like "poor 
Poll." 

If ever there was an autocrat of the dinner- 
table, that man was Doctor Johnson. The best 
minds of his day paid him homage, and well they 
might. He seems always to have had his hand 
upon his conversational sword, ready to whip it 
out for a fencing match, and never so content as 
when he met a foeman worthy of his steel. It is 
safe to say that no man was better equipped for 
intellectual sword-play. A powerful understand- 
ing, marvelous memory, and wide reading were 
his leading assets. His work of dictionary-making 
stood him in good stead in these intellectual bouts, 
and he could pick and choose from the array of 
words that came thronging to respond to his 
thought. 

The conversational powers of Irving were apt 
to play him false when he found himself among 



TABLE TALK 129 

comparative strangers. His friend Moore hit off 
the situation in a few words, when the latter 
made this journal note: "Took Irving to the 
dinner at Elwyn's, but he did not open his mouth. 
Not strong as a lion, but delightful as a domestic 
animal." Concerning the poet Rogers, Irving him- 
self dwells upon the delight of a tete-a-tete con- 
versation with him over the breakfast table. In a 
word he seems to have reduced table-talk to a fine 
art, in which he had perfected himself to the last 
degree. 

In the Mneid we read that among the good 
things for which ^olus acknowledges his indebted- 
ness to Juno, was the privilege of reclining at the 
feast of the gods. But even this should pale 
before the pleasure of listening to the rhetorical 
flourishes, the keen logic and the sparkling repartee 
of gifted talkers when encircling the social board. 
Are they to be imitated^ From afar, perhaps. 
Every one cannot hope to rival Sidney Smith or 
Madame de Stael, but each one can do his or her 
share to make the daily dinner-table meetings, 
feasts, not for the bodily well being only, but also 
for that of the mind. 



THE LETTER IS THE MAN 



THE LETTER IS THE MAN 

BUFFON'S well-known saying, "the style is 
the man," has come to be regarded as a sort 
of literary axiom, as little questioned as those of 
logic or mathematics. To speak in a general way, 
a writer's characteristics are mirrored in his style 
as stars in a placid lake, but if we would read his 
very soul, we must turn to his letters of friend- 
ship. As the sonnet unlocked the heart of Shake- 
speare, so do letters exchanged between friends 
throw open the door to the inner shrine of their 
respective natures, until one might say: Let me 
read the letters of the man and I will tell you what 
he is. 

We hear much nowadays concerning human 
documents, but it would seem that nothing has so 
great a claim upon the title as this frank inter- 
change of thought between friend and friend. 
True, an author's poems give us his mental alti- 
tude, in phrases that caress the ear and win the 
understanding; his novel — if it be a masterpiece 
of character painting or cunningly contrived as to 

133 



134 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

plot — fascinates after its kind; the volume of es- 
says, sparkling as frost in moonlight, dazzles us 
into admiration of the art that conceals art, and 
yet when all is told, it is to his letters that we 
turn, if we would know the spontaneous outpour- 
ings of his heart. 

Paradoxical as it may seem, it is only when a 
great man dies that many in the circle of his ad- 
mirers come to know him. Denied by fate or 
adverse circumstances the privilege of his acquaint- 
ance, they find pleasure, even though it be touched 
with sadness, in perusing these soul-revelations. 
Thus, whether they are our contemporaries, owing 
allegiance to the same flag, or born in another age 
and clime, we may come to know them at their 
best. Michael Angelo, the matchless sculptor, 
calling forth from the pale marble a Moses or a 
Davdd, may awe us by his power, but we feel that 
after all he was cast in a mold similar to less 
gifted beings, when we read his letters to his father 
and his friends. 

And there is that well-nigh forgotten writer, 
Gerald Griffin, who, as he humorously tells us, 
went up to London fired with the ambition of 
rivaling Scott and throwing Shakespeare into the 
shade. What of him? Just this : that his epistles 
respond to the test of repeated perusals ; that they 



THE LETTER IS THE MAN 135 

possess a perennial charm, stealing into our darker 
musings with a gaiety that exorcises the spirit of 
sadness. They are the outpourings of a nature 
sound to the core, whose cheerfulness bubbled up 
over the pages of his letters; the latter dashed 
now and then with a faint melancholy, proving 
his kinship with those who dwell upon the lonely 
heights of genius. 

Among a hundred rare bits, let me quote this: 
"Do not be hurt at any time by my telling you 
the truth. It is the part of a friend to do so, and 
the friendship which the touch of truth dissolves 
can only have been linked by falsehood." Again 
is the letter the man. 

The name of Irving is one to conjure with. At 
its mention, up from the haunts of Sleepy Hollow 
rise strange beings, with Rip Van Winkle — his 
twenty years' nap over — in the lead; Goldsmith 
comes arrayed in the bravery of his plum-colored 
suit, and with him, the Moorish magic that haunts 
the halls of the Alhambra. Yet despite the charms 
of all this, we turn with added delight to the letters 
in which he laid bare his heart to his friends. And 
this is the Irving that we love. 

In the volumes, ''Among My Books," and "My 
Study Window," we discover the dignified Har- 
vard Professor. If we would find the real Lowell, 



136 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

the man of the domestic hearth, the boon com- 
panion, and the honest hater of shams, we must 
seek him in his letters. And there genuine Yankee 
fun jostles ripe wisdom and an acute observation 
of men and things. 

Some years ago, to the admirers of that gentlest 
and noblest of geniuses — Edwin Booth — came, in 
book form, the letters penned by him to the daugh- 
ter and friends he so loved. And rare reading 
they are. Those who came under the thrall of his 
dramatic genius, could not but be touched; but 
without these letters they would never guess the 
greatness and depth of his nature, its tenderness 
and simplicity, its charm and lovable qualities. 

But are not characters of an opposite nature 
disclosed by similar means? It could hardly be 
otherwise. He who lives for self, who stoops to 
petty spite, who is steeled to the heart-aches of 
others, under like circumstances, just as surely lays 
bare the fact, and writes, one might say, a chapter 
in self-revelation. 



CHARACTER REQUISITES 



CHARACTER REQUISITES 

HOWEVER much your cynic may rail at a 
world grown gray in folly he must admit 
that it is, withal, a pretty just one, prone, in the 
long run, to set their proper value upon men and 
things. Observe its tactics. Some valiant knight 
of the quill, with flourish of trumpets, enters the 
lists to dispute, let us say, the prize of poesy. 
Hardly have the plaudits that hailed his entrance 
died away ere he is unhorsed by that bluff old 
rider, the world, and forthwith retires crestfallen 
from the field. 

The world is especially a shrewd judge of char- 
acter. Awaiting developments, for a time it stands, 
so to speak, quietly by, wearing an abstracted air, 
yet all the while taking an inventory, mental and 
moral, of the candidate's equipment, ready, if he 
be found wanting, to order him to the right-about. 
As a rule, its pronouncements are accepted without 
cavil, whether it says this is base metal, that has a 
false ring, or this is of sterling worth. 

As regards the work of character building, it 
139 



140 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

is a matter which comes home to every one, and 
one which the student, in the formative period of 
his existence, cannot take too seriously. Possessed 
of a high character, when he closes his school books 
for the last time, he goes forth, ready, if need be, 
to breast the blows of unhappy circumstances. 
Without it, what would he be but "a thing of 
shreds and patches." 

All the world knows that the indispensable 
requisites of an upright character, first, last, and 
all the time, are truth and honor. Kindliness, 
courtesy, and their kindred virtues are, of course, 
to be cultivated. They help to pad over the rough 
places of life, but honor and truth should be the 
pole stars of existence. Lovelace, on the eve of 
departure to the wars, replies to the reproachful 
Lucastra : 

"I could not love thee dear, so much, 
Loved I not honor more," 

and a lengthy dissertation is epitomized therein. 

It is this nice sense of honor that makes its 
possessor a marked man. His word is his bond. 
Men feel that in their relations with him they 
need not be on their guard against artifice. Fair 
dealing is his motto, and his conduct squares with 
it. On the other hand, a certain stigma attaches 



CHARACTER REQUISITES 141 

to the individual or nation known to be untrust- 
worthy. When Virgil made Laocoon say that he 
feared the Greeks even bearing gifts, he no doubt 
voiced the sentiments of many a nation, once 
sufferers from Grecian perfidy. 

It is true that while the world is willing to sit 
at the feet of the Greeks to be taught a knowledge 
and love of esthetics, it looks elsewhere for the 
noblest types of manhood and womanhood. Of 
such a character, the fiber, nay, the very life blood, 
is truthfulness. Though he be without money 
in his purse, his culture small, his abilities slender, 
such is his moral force that he gains the respect and 
esteem of all, save, perhaps, the false and the base. 

When his country had fallen upon evil days, 
it was Lincoln's proved integrity that caught the 
popular heart and called him to shape the destinies 
of a great nation. Another proof, that while 
mind-force, brilliant gifts, and social success are 
valued by the world, it is to the character of 
rugged rectitude that it pins its faith. 

Nor does it surprise us to find that qualities 
whose worth is so universally admitted should 
have engaged the pen of genius. Poets have at- 
tained their highest flights when truth or honor 
was their theme, and the greatest artists in noble 
prose have given of their best to add volume to 



142 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

the general chorus rising in its praise from the 
hearts of men. Among the latest utterances on 
this head, we find in a volume of essays newly 
given to the public: "Love of truth is the basis 
of character. To be truthful and honorable are 
the most difficult of virtues, for truth and honor 
spring from the finest sense of duty of which the 
soul is capable." 

But not from a shrewd eye to the loaves and 
fishes of life should honesty be cultivated. Rather 
than that, better in the face of crushing defeat, 
be able to say with Francis I. at Pavia, "All is lost 
save honor." For there is a failure which is suc- 
cess, a failure in which the vanquished goes down 
to "dusty death" wearing the white flower of 
honor and truth, 



BE NATURAL 



BE NATURAL 

IN one of his immortal conversations with Bos- 
well, said Dr. Johnson, assuming his most 
oracular manner, "Sir, there is in mankind a dis- 
position to make people stare," and, remembering 
Johnson's polysyllabics, every student of the great 
biography is ready to exclaim: Verily, the gruff 
old moralist knew whereof he spoke! 

Behold him in the company of the courtly 
Beauclerk, Langton the genial, the stately Burke, 
"poor Goldsmith," Sir Joshua Reynolds and the 
irrepressible Boswell. As he measures out his wis- 
dom in words of sesquipedalian length, not to gaz- 
ing rustics, but to these urban gentlemen, he best 
illustrates his own dictum. 

Of a truth, this desire to make the world stand 
at gaze, comes to the surface in various shapes. 
Let us consider it as it crops out in the form of 
affectation. This foible, to put it as mildly as 
possible, is not far to seek. The other evening, at 
Mrs. Algernon Jones' reception, you met the guest 
in whose name the company was gathered to- 

145 



146 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

gether. Dropping into conversation with her, 
at once it became evident that the lady was play- 
ing a part. Forced intonations, a prodigious roll- 
ing of the r's or a merciless sacrifice of them, an 
exaggerated broadening of certain vowels, and, in 
general, a mouthing of words, achieved a result 
that on the very face of it bore the stamp of 
affectation. 

And the sum total of the impression produced*? 
Pity, not unmingled with a mild contempt. Yet 
Mrs. Algernon Jones' guest is typical of a class 
whose members would fain pose as superior beings. 

To go to the root of the matter, what does it 
imply? Those who look beneath the surface of 
things see in the assumption of fantastic tones 
and pronunciations an effort to hide mediocrities 
or deficiencies in the character or training of the 
individual. Another who has studied from the life 
describes it as a sort of dust-throwing whereby 
the vision of the onlooker may, in a sense, be 
blinded to the real state of affairs. 

Viewing the matter from another standpoint, it 
seems to be a self-imposed tribute of the mediocre 
nature to the ideal. Comparing himself with the 
standard of excellence and becoming painfully 
conscious of his deficiencies, he seeks a short cut 
to his ideal, achieving nothing but an affected 



BE NATURAL 147 

manner, offensive to all whose good opinion is 
worth having. And the game after all is not worth 
the candle, for while it may make the unskilful 
stare, it cannot but make the judicious grieve. 
Catch the affected person off his guard, posing, so 
to speak, is thrown to the winds, and the natural 
man stands revealed. An immense outlay for 
ridiculously meager returns I 

Is the affected person sincere, is a pertinent 
question. Some there are who do not hesitate to 
say that affectation and sincerity have, in chemical 
language, no affinity for each other — that the 
presence of one excludes the other. Be this as it 
may, would simplicity or affectation prove the 
open sesame to your confidence"? Upon which 
would you lean in a crisis, or which would you 
prefer in a bosom friend^ 

Again in the company of the affected, the true- 
hearted cannot get on. For what is the charm of 
society if not the meeting on common ground of 
cultured minds and kindred spirits who give to 
each other of their best, who are simple, natural, 
sincere? In the conversation of the really great, 
affectation finds no place. It should not excite 
surprise then, that a really noble nature, unstinted 
as to mental gifts, sincere and unaffected, should 
find easy access to the inner sanctuary of every 



148 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

heart. Given such a state of affairs, and this result 
must follow as the night the day. 

The poet touches the great world-heart, not by 
his florid rhetoric, his nicely balanced sentences, 
but by his skill in using the electric current of 
natural feeling which proclaims the whole race 
kin. Simplicity and sincerity are the twin requi- 
sites of truly great work. The biographer of Gar- 
rick tells of the rivalry existing between that actor 
and his fellow-tragedian, Barry, as regards their 
rendition of the role of Lear. Each had his warm 
partisans, and discussion ran high as to their com- 
parative merits until some one struck at the heart 
of the matter in these lines : 

"The town has found out different ways 
To praise the different Lears; 
For Barry they have loud applause, 
For Garrick — only tears." 

Yes, the world over, simplicity and sincerity are, 
in the long run, winning cards. They, like charity, 
make amends for a score of short-comings, and 
when to them are added great mental gifts the 
combination is irresistible. 

Verily, in such a presence affectation must needs 
hide her diminished head. 



SPRINGS OF EMOTION 



SPRINGS OF EMOTION 

HEIGH-HO! for childhood and early youth! 
Then our hearts were like so many wind- 
harps stirred by each faint breath of emotion. 
Then our laughter rang true. We were gay, we 
knew not why, if not from very joy of living. 
Wordsworth was right when he said that heaven 
is very near us in our childhood. But as the years, 
like birds on the wing, speed away to join the 
irrevocable past, we realize that a glory has indeed 
passed from the earth. 

And with this glory, in too many instances, 
flies the heart's young gaiety. Less and less do we 
thrill under the old spells. At length we come to 
pose as cynics, in whose hearts the fountains of 
emotion no longer play. But is this doing our- 
selves strict justice"? Are we really as hard- 
hearted as we appear? 

I think not. A thousand subtle causes, like 
descending angels, may still have power to move 
the waters of our hearts and give them the healing 
virtue of emotion. 

151 



152 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

I kneel at Benediction with a throng of silent 
worshipers. No ferver melts the ice of my heart. 
Suddenly the solemn hush is broken by the plead- 
ing notes of a hymn new to me. No vocal pyro- 
technics are here. The soprano keeps modestly 
to the medium notes, and the alto — a clinging 
shadow — moves with it. Gradually, some subtle 
spell, I know not what, falls upon me. The ice 
round my heart is melted. Its waters are stirred 
by the angel of song, and I taste the joy of loving 
contrition. 

There is a sweet sadness that steals over the 
heart, when, after a long absence, the exile looks 
again upon scenes familiar and dear to his childish 
eyes. Nor need the landscape that evokes this feel- 
ing be such as to tempt the brush of the artist. 
Let it be that associated with the halcyon days 
of youth, and the eye lingers upon it with the fond 
gaze of a lover, looking through a mist of tears. 

Again, the chances of life often throw together 
types of character in tastes, in sympathies, as wide 
as the poles asunder. People who serve in the 
ranks with us there are, whose ways are not our 
ways, who love what we shrink from, and who 
spurn what we fondly clasp to our hearts. In the 
flush of health, in the pride of life, we will have 
none of them. 



SPRINGS OF EMOTION 153 

But time passes. We look again, perhaps upon 
the faces of those with whom, long ago, we had 
agreed to disagree. The light in their eyes bums 
low. In their depths sorrow sits on brood. The 
cheeks have lost their beauty-curves, and, in some 
unaccountable way, their wan faces become a keen 
reproach. Straightway, sympathy storms and 
wins the citadels of our hearts. God touches them 
with his grace of kindliness. To the winds we 
cast our petty differences, and we give to them 
the warm hand-clasp of friendship. 

In the world of emotion, the poet, to be worthy 
of that high name, must reign supreme. He moves 
his readers in proportion as he is moved himself. 
This is the animating spirit of those snatches of 
song that refuse to be forgotten, perennially stir- 
ring the heart. 

Expressions there are, which, occurring in verse, 
seem to lift it from the level of the commonplace 
into the region of the poetic. Haunting phrases 
like "no more," suggestive and reminiscent to 
some minds, have in them a touch of indefinable 
sadness that pierces while it soothes the heart. 

Nor is this all. A mother looking with patient 
sorrow upon a wayward son; decrepit age linger- 
ing in forlorn helplessness upon life's highway; 
the break in the orator's voice, an affront to a 



154 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

friend; — all sweep, like the touch of strong fingers 
across the chords of our hearts, until they vibrate 
with pity, tremble with indignation, or thrill with 
love. 

Far fall the day when such appeals to human 
tenderness meet no response. But they must and 
will meet with response in every noble nature, 
"until the heart itself be cold in Lethe's pool." 



HOROSCOPES VERSUS TELESCOPES 



HOROSCOPES VERSUS TELESCOPES 

"Our little systems have their day, 

They have their day and cease to be; 
They are but broken lights of Thee, 

And Thou, O Lord, art more than they." 

ASTROLOGY is a dame of long descent. 
She traces her pedigree far back to the ages 
when shepherds watched their flocks upon the 
Chaldean plains. Gazing continually upon the 
open volumes of the starry heavens, these simple 
folk began to read therefrom a mysterious mean- 
ing connected with the affairs of men and nations. 
Gradually the constellations that wreath the 
heavens as with flowers of living light came to 
be invested with an influence upon terrestrial af- 
fairs, giving rise to what is known as judicial and 
natural astrology. 

Judicial astrology taught that at the birth of 
each individual his destiny was fixed, and in the 
case of one who was to play an important part in 
life, to herald the event some blazing comet or 
new star would appear in the celestial blue. 

157 



158 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

That this belief was current in the days of 
Shakespeare is evident from the words which he 
puts upon the lips of Glendower, who says: 

"At my nativity 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes 
Of burning cressets ; know, that at my birth, 
The frame and huge foundation of the world 

Shook hke a coward." 

Soon it became the fashion to cast the horoscope 
— as it was called — of royalty, or of those the cir- 
cumstances of whose lives seemed to promise re- 
markable developments. In finding the fate of 
an individual or undertaking, the method usually 
followed — we are told — was to draw a horoscope 
representing the portion of the stars or planets 
either in the whole heaven, or one degree above 
the eastern horizon at the time of the birth of the 
person or the beginning of the enterprise. The ce- 
lestial sphere was divided into twelve parts called 
"houses." The first, called the ascendant house, 
was regarded as the house of life, and the planets 
located therein at the moment of birth were popu- 
larly supposed to have the most potent influence 
on the life and destiny of the individual. 

To the other divisions were given such names 
as the houses of kindred, riches, love, death, 



HOROSCOPES VERSUS TELESCOPES 159 

friends, and enemies. Arbitrary significations were 
assigned to the different heavenly bodies, as they 
appeared singly or in conjunction, and according 
to these significations was the horoscope inter- 
preted. Thus faith in stellar influences became so 
widespread that the astrologer was looked upon 
as a seer, and effectually ruled in camp and court. 
This was especially true of the Middle Ages, 
though the star-reader plied his trade long before 
the Christian era. 

That astrology was practiced among the Ro- 
mans, even under the empire, there is abundant 
proof. The story is told that when the wily and 
suspicious Tiberius wore the purple, the skill of 
the astrologer, Thrasyllus, was tested by that 
monarch's suddenly asking him if he had cal- 
culated how long he himself had to live. But 
the crafty astrologer, divining his master's inten- 
tion, after examining the aspect of the stars, with 
well-feigned terror declared that "the present 
hour was for him critical and perhaps fatal," 
which reply saved his life and strengthened the 
faith of the imperial dupe in his pretended power 
to read the stars. 

Another instance of its dominion over royal 
minds is furnished by that prince of shrewdness 
and subtlety, Louis XI of France. Scott, whose 



i6o IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

wizard pen touched few subjects without render- 
ing them enchanting — in Quentin Durward^ — 
makes the leading events of the story turn upon 
the predictions of Louis' court astrologer, Gale- 
otti. That the astute Louis, credited by historians 
with marvelous skill in reading men's hearts, could 
fall so easy a prey to the trickery of Galeotti, 
only proves anew that all men have their vulner- 
able parts, though, unlike Achilles, in this case, 
it seems to have been located in the head rather 
than in the heel. How the astrologer escaped the 
dangling noose when the wrath of his royal master 
burst upon his head is quaintly told by Scott, who 
makes him reply to that monarch's question as to 
the hour of the astrologer's death by saying that it 
would precede that of his majesty by twenty- four 
hours ! 

Like all subjects of dispute, astrology, even in 
the height of its popularity, had its advocates and 
opponents. Cicero opposed it with skill and elo- 
quence, quoting as arguments against it the un- 
timely death of Caesar, of Pompey, and of Crassus, 
whom the Chaldean astrologers had predicted 
would die at home, in age, peace and honor. 

The reference to this art in the plays of Shake- 
speare would seem to indicate that he was no 
believer in the pretended powers of the astrolo- 



HOROSCOPES VERSUS TELESCOPES 161 

gers. Witness Harry Hotspur's irreverent reply 
to the boasting Glendower, or, in King Lear^ Ed- 
mund's soliloquy, in which he calls the science of 
the stars "foppery of the world that when we are 
sick in fortune we make guilty of our disasters 
the sun, moon, and the stars." 

The lean, plotting Cassius was evidently no be- 
liever, since he declared to Brutus that the fault 
is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are 
underlings. Napoleon, man of destiny, believed 
in his propitious star, and it was perhaps this be- 
lief that gave him the appearance of courting 
death, leading him on one occasion to say, "The 
bullet that is to kill me is not yet cast." 

But in a happy hour Galileo invented the tele- 
scope, and this, with the general establishment of 
the Copernican system, gave the deathblow to 
astrology. However, though the science is dead, 
it still seems to live on in our language. It gleams 
in the writings of the early poets, notably those 
of Milton, who makes continual references to the 
planetary influences. In ordinary conversation it 
crops out occasionally, as when we say "Thanks to 
my lucky star," or "His star is in the ascendant," 
or when we speak of a person as of a mercurial, 
saturnine, or jovial temperament. Gradually as- 
trology came to be totally and forever eclipsed 



i62 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

by her daughter, astronomy, and divination by the 
stars fell into the same category with palmistry 
and fortune-telling by cards. 

Thus, while the star-gazers of the past em- 
ployed themselves in assigning strange meanings 
to the orbs whose mysterious flashings seemed to 
speak of good or evil fortune, those of to-day build 
observatories at the summits of lofty mountains, 
from which to sweep the heavens with their tele- 
scopes, content if they are able to shed a few rays 
of true knowledge upon the minds of men. 

Yet the astrologers, like the alchemists, builded 
better than they knew, for, as so many precursers, 
they prepared the way for the most sublime of 
all sciences — astronomy. We at least have no 
reason to regret that, as in Othello's case, their 
occupation is gone, or that the horoscope has given 
way to the telescope. 



WHEN ALCHEMY WAS KING 



WHEN ALCHEMY WAS KING 

THE story of the rise, decline and fall of 
this dethroned monarch of mediaeval minds 
abounds in elements at once marvelous and pic- 
turesque. Phases of its history read, one might 
say, like chapters from the "Arabian Nights," 
and in fact much of its literature might be classed 
under the head of romance. In other words, to 
precipitate the hard facts from this solution of 
false premises, magic and modicum of truth, is 
a task hardly to be performed in the limits of a 
brief sketch. Let us, then, merely touch upon the 
leading points in the case. 

Around the word alchemy itself there clings a 
peculiar atmosphere, the mere mention of which 
conjures up visions of gloomy, smoke-clouded 
laboratories, with all the paraphernalia of the 
"black art" ; wicked looking crucibles, ugly retorts 
and yawning furnaces fairly challenge suspicion, 
an effect perceptibly heightened by the presiding 
genius of the place. 

Before we proceed to exorcise these ghosts of 
165 



i66 ibYLS AND SKETCHES 

the past, let us see if they had any reason for exist- 
ing. Upon investigation we learn that for more 
than ten centuries, devotees of this "sacred art," 
as it was called, labored incessantly over these 
same retorts and crucibles, daunted neither by re- 
peated failures nor the sword of state suspended 
over their heads. As every one knows, their object 
was two- fold : to transmute the baser metals into 
the nobler, and to distill an elixir, a draught of 
which would cure all diseases and prolong life in- 
definitely. The school-girl of this electrically en- 
lightened century, having read her textbook on 
chemistry, would smile at such a chimera; but be 
it remembered, it is a far cry from the present 
time to the early and middle ages of our era. 

The belief in the theory of the transmutation 
of metals arose from the opinions of the ancients, 
notably Plato and Aristotle, in regard to the con- 
stitution of matter. They held that there were 
but four elements: earth, air, fire, and water, 
which were continually changing into one another, 
and on this the alchemists built their hope of 
success in dealing with the base metals. By com- 
mon consent, Egypt is regarded as the birthplace 
of alchemy. There, through the misinterpreta- 
tion of the receipts of early Egyptian metal work- 
ers, together with the four-element theory, the 



WHEN ALCHEMY WAS KING 167 

doctrine of transmutation of metals grew and 
flourished, whence its seeds were wafted over the 
sea to Spain, thence gradually spreading through- 
out Europe. 

Then, as now, the gold fever swayed men's 
thoughts, but, unlike those of the modern gold 
hunter, their mines lay at the bottom of their 
crucibles. To Hermes of Egypt is given the title, 
father of alchemy, and to him are attributed the 
thirteen precepts concerning the making of gold, 
said to be inscribed upon the celebrated emerald 
slab. So mysterious is its phraseology — a charac- 
teristic of most alchemical literature — that the or- 
dinary reader is left completely in the dark as to 
its meaning, and is forced to conclude that it must 
have been a perusal of this table which led a 
modem cynic to declare that language was given 
man to conceal his thoughts. 

From what can be gathered on the subject, 
many alchemists looked upon metals as compounds 
of sulphur and mercury; others held the rather 
poetic notion that gold was in reality condensed 
sunbeams. The so-called "water of sulphur" 
seems to have figured conspicuously in what was 
known as the transmutation of metals, and "this 
water, acting like a leaven, was supposed to change 
into its resemblance the substance to be dyed." 



i68 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Thus, while some wasted their energies seeking for 
the philosopher's stone, others, with equal folly, 
burned the candle of life at both ends in vain 
efforts to concoct the elixir of life. 

To realize the strange tenacity with which the 
theory fastened itself upon the mind, one has only 
to glance at the pages of Hawthorne's "Septimius 
Felton." Weird and uncanny, the tale throws a 
gruesome spell over the reader as he follows the 
dreamer, Felton, in his passionate musings on the 
brevity of life and his utter absorption in prepar- 
ing the elixir that shall set death at defiance. One 
lays aside the book with a desire to hasten into the 
open air, to mingle with his companions, to enjoy 
the bitter-sweets of life, with death at the end of 
the vista called three-score years and ten. 

The question arises: Were the alchemists in 
good faith ^ There can be no doubt that a large 
class of these zealous workers honestly believed 
that the yellow alloys which they turned out of 
their crucibles were masses of genuine gold, yet 
it is equally true that the knavish alchemist existed, 
who, though perceiving that his attempts were 
futile, did not hesitate to dupe the credulous and 
wheedle them out of their fortunes in return for 
a recipe for making gold and silver. 

Besides the typical alchemist which the novelist 



WHEN ALCHEMY WAS KING 169 

is fond of describing, there are others whose names 
do honor to the art. Heading the list of European 
alchemists we find the name of Albertus Magnus, 
who was in addition a profound theologian, scholar 
and astronomer. While making progress in the 
arts, he doubted the possibility of transmutation, 
and, in effect, warned the avaricious princes — who 
wished to replenish the state coffers quickly and 
easily — that philosopher's gold was but glittering 
tinsel. His pupil, St. Thomas Aquinas, studied 
and experimented in the art and even wrote a book 
on the subject, while Roger Bacon possessed him- 
self of so many of the open secrets of nature as to 
bring upon himself the charge of being a magician. 
Another phase of the matter presents itself in the 
fact that even physicians of that day regarded 
gold as the most perfect of medicines, which sug- 
gests the thought that the modern bichloride-of- 
gold treatment may be an indirect descendant of 
that theory. 

But the reign of alchemy finally came to an 
end. As knowledge increased and methods of 
analysis became more accurate, the metals began 
to take rank as elements, and gradually the theory 
that had so long dazzled men's minds faded, the 
dreamers awoke from their delusions, and alchemy 
was succeeded by chemistry. As to ourselves, who 



lyo IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

have inherited the results of the alchemist's labor, 
it would seem that modesty best becomes us. For 
though we have solidified gases, though we know 
what fuel supplies the fires of the sun, and have 
caught and tamed electricity — for all this alchemy 
paved the way, and though it be now dethroned, 
its descendant, chemistry, lives and reigns. Verily, 
the king is dead ; long live the king ! 



CELESTIAL MESSENGERS 



CELESTIAL MESSENGERS 

IN studying the literature of the heavenly 
bodies, one cannot fail to note the patient 
research that marks the labors of the astronomers 
in their efforts to wrest their secrets from the skies. 
After devoting years to the establishing of some 
theory to which they pinned their scientific faith, 
in the flashlight of a new fact they find it unten- 
able; then wiser, and, mayhap, sadder, they again 
look about for some key to the mystery that lies 
hidden in that great cipher — the starry heavens. 

The problem of the origin of the various me- 
teoric phenomena is a case in point. As year 
after year the dizzy earth whirls through space 
in obedience to the silent mandate of its lord and 
master, the sun, portions of its path are illuminated 
by pyrotechnic displays, in brilliancy far exceed- 
ing those devised by the ingenuity of man. To 
this wonderful exhibition of celestial fireworks 
astronomers have given the name, star-shower, a 
term not, indeed, a misnomer to those who have 
seen the August and November downpour of 
meteoric fire. 

173 



174 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

These star-like bodies, as swift as they are fleet- 
ing, dart noiselessly through the sky, followed by 
a bright train, a sight familiar enough to any one, 
who, on a clear, moonless night, has fixed a steady 
gaze upon some particular quarter of the heavens. 
Startling as it is for the moment to see a star fall, 
as it is popularly termed, how much greater the 
amazement to have been witness of those wonder- 
ful meteoric showers recorded in the literature of 
the science I Then, apparently, all the stars in 
the heavens seemed to have slipped their moor- 
ings, and, darting hither and thither, thick as 
snowflakes in a snowstorm, presented the sublime 
spectacle of a shower of fire. 

Whence come these bodies and what are they, 
is a question that has been variously answered. 
Those upon the watch-towers of science assert that 
these periodic displays are due to the fact that 
the earth's orbit cuts that of a comet, and that the 
fragments into which the comet has been divided 
furnish the material for these pyrotechnics. These 
bodies, it is said, flying through space with an 
immense velocity, by the resistance they meet in 
penetrating our atmosphere, develop sufficient heat 
to inflame them, hence the phenomena of star 
showers and shooting stars. 

Other messengers there are from the distant re- 



CELESTIAL MESSENGERS 175 

gions of space, some of which, in their rapid flight 
across the sky seem to resemble balls of fire, often 
sufficiently brilliant to light up the entire land- 
scape. In many cases, after they are lost to view, 
a loud detonation is heard, followed by a fall of 
stones, and to the latter, science has given the 
name meteorites. 

As to their composition it may be said that 
though by far the greater number are mineral, 
yet a few are masses of nearly pure iron, more or 
less alloyed with nickel, cobalt and other metals. 
In these, though subjected to the severest chemical 
tests, experimenters have failed to find any new 
element, though twenty-four of these already 
known have responded to the tests. As a rule, 
meteorites are covered with a thin black coating, 
sometimes having a bright surface, others being 
of a lusterless black. To account for their fiery 
appearance as they dart across the sky one has 
only to remember that by the resistance they meet 
from the air, intense heat is developed which melts 
the exterior of the stone and produces great light. 

Those elements, gaseous and metallic, that play 
the most conspicuous parts in the economy of ter- 
restrial life are found in the make-up of meteorites, 
thus justifying the belief that the individual 
worlds and fragments of them forming the uni- 



176 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

verse, are similarly constituted. The strong family 
likeness and similar chemical composition of me- 
teorites that have fallen in widely different parts 
of the earth seem to speak in no uncertain accents 
of a common origin. 

The theory which traces their source to formerly 
active lunar volcanoes and entertained by so great 
an astronomer as Laplace, is, in an article appear- 
ing in Astronomy and Astro-physics, well propped 
up by what seems to be sound mathematical rea- 
soning. If astronomers ever succeed in bringing 
this theory from the region of hypothesis to that of 
certainty, what food for speculation lies in the 
fact! 

What poet, to whom references to the gentle 
moon have from time immemorial formed part of 
his stock in trade, would ever suspect that in the 
heyday of its lunar youth fires so fierce burned in 
its breast? And yet in all seriousness the theory 
is a plausible one. The merest tyro in the science 
of the heavens knows that the moon's surface, as 
presented to terrestrial gazers, is almost honey- 
combed by the craters of extinct volcanoes. Ages 
ago, then, when creation was young, many a giant 
Vesuvius must have blackened the face of the 
heavens with its mighty belchings. 

Thus these bodies, sent in so summary a man- 



CELESTIAL MESSENGERS 177 

ner from the burning heart of the now placid 
moon, have since been wandering in eccentric paths 
through space, until, moth-like, they are caught by 
the earth's attraction, and, after ages of devious 
wandering, finally come to rest upon its surface. 
Verily there are more things in heaven and earth 
than are dreamed of, not only in Horatio's philoso- 
phy but also in that of most modern astronomers ! 



MOTHER EARTH 



MOTHER EARTH 

PHYSIOGNOMISTS tell us that the human 
countenance is a book upon which the pens 
of thought and emotion are ever at work, and 
that if we could but read it, every individual 
carries his life-history in his face. Puzzling as 
the record may sometimes be, yet, in the main, 
it is written in a language that may be easily trans- 
lated by the aid of the notes and dictionary fur- 
nished by each one's heart and conscience. 

A parallel case is that of Mother Earth. Her 
biography also has been written up to date and 
the great series of stratified rocks form the pages 
of a volume, to geologists, fascinating as a novel. 
As the world knows, it required no long perusal 
of this book of nature to convince the wise old 
savants that the paltry six thousand years — so 
long believed to be the age of the earth — must be 
abandoned for a number startlingly great. 

To justify themselves against the outcry of 
those who saw in it a conflict with the Mosaic 
teachings, the geologists were obliged to appeal 

I8i 



i82 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

to the forces of nature under daily observation. 
Thus was it shown through the testimony of rivers, 
rainfalls and ocean tides that by the process of 
erosion and disintegration, mountains and river- 
beds are continually parting with their substance, 
and — the second member of the equation being 
equal to the first — that corresponding deposits are 
being as ceaselessly formed elsewhere. Hence 
we may conclude that water is the main agent in 
the process of the destroying and building up of 
rocks. 

Thus it may be said that the vast mountain 
ranges which traverse our earth have, in the course 
of long ages, lifted themselves Triton-like from 
the blue depths of the ocean, to which fact their 
ripple marks and numberless shells bear witness. 

The student of geology knows that the greatest 
thickness of stratified rocks is about one hundred 
thousand feet; hence the chief labor confronting 
him who would know the age of the world, is the 
reduction of feet to years. Though bristling with 
difficulties, the task has been undertaken and the 
result has not been without some degree of suc- 
cess. In the first place, careful calculations have 
been made as to the average proportion of sedi- 
ment contained in certain rivers of both hemi- 
spheres. This, together with the large amount of 



MOTHER EARTH 183 

detritus carried along by the current, forms the 
data from which approximate estimates have been 
made as to the amount of soil removed yearly from 
the area over which the rivers flow. This being 
deposited upon the beds of oceans and on sea- 
shores, lays the foundation for future continents. 

Taking the Mississippi rate of denudation, 
which, according to the estimate, removes one 
six-thousandth of a foot yearly, it follows that to 
remove one foot it would require six thousand 
years. To apply this rate of erosion and rock- 
building to the one hundred thousand feet of 
stratified rock is to lead to a figure so large as to 
shake the faith of the ordinary inquirer in geo- 
logical results. And yet, in taking the six hundred 
million years as the period of geological time, 
though certain scientists think this number too 
large, others calmly tell us that it is too small ! 

That it is a problem difficult of solution even 
the most sanguine must admit, and while the labors 
of geologists must result in a nearer approach to 
the truth as to the exact age of Mother Earth 
yet she will continue to be — if we may so speak — 
"a lady of uncertain age." 

But what an interesting biography, that of our 
globe ! The illuminated tomes of mediaeval man- 
uscripts around whose margins crept graceful vines 



i84 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

and from which "tropic birds took flight'' are com- 
pletely eclipsed by those of nature's illumining. 
The delicate fronds of the fern family have left 
their impress upon many a rocky page; diamonds 
deeply imbedded veil their fires in the sandy folds 
of others and summer showers are here recorded 
in the dimpled rocks. Day after day will the wind 
and water continue to write this history, and finis 
will be inscribed upon it only when 

"The great globe itself, 
Yea, all that it inherit shall dissolve, 
And like an unsubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind." 



PICTURES IN GLASS 



PICTURES IN GLASS 

THOSE who are keenly alive to color effects 
need not be informed of the pleasure to be 
derived from watching the sunlight sifting through 
the stained glass windows of a church. To one 
sitting in our own chapel just as the lingering 
dusk of night flees before the dawn, the scene is 
unique and beautiful. As the first beapis shine 
through the eastern window, silently upon the 
opposite wall plays a bar of violet light, melting 
gradually into faint rose-red and near which is 
visible just the ghost of a pale green. Now it 
steals onward until it falls upon the mural pillars, 
investing them with a short-lived glory. But upon 
the capitals especially do these colors play with 
finest effect. To their beauty of form, with their 
graceful tangle of acanthus leaves and flowing 
outlines, another charm is added, and for a mo- 
ment the flattered sense is cheated into the belief 
that it beholds capitals carved from the solid 
amethyst, cut from the warm, glowing heart of an 
immense ruby, or chiseled with cunning skill from 
the rare green of the emerald. 

187 



i88 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Again, as the afternoon sun throws its radiance 
through the transfiguring medium of painted glass, 
note the effect on altar, chancel and floor. Every 
detail of the rose window is traced upon the oppo- 
site wall, and amber outlines interlace with those 
of a brighter orange, whose vivid hues are softened 
by a rich dark brown. The floor is stained with 
flecks of garnet or drenched by a flood of blue 
light, which leaves the gazer in doubt as to whether 
it is a soft azure or a pale apple green. 

But who is the painter of these bright colors, 
fleeting as they are fair? Whence does the sun- 
light borrow its almost prismatic hues? And for 
answer we must turn to those beautiful stained, 
painted or mosaic windows, which light up, with 
a radiance all their own, the interior of our 
churches. 

To trace the growth of the glass industry would 
be no easy matter, as it sends its roots far into 
Egyptian, Assyrian, as well as European soil ; still, 
a few details concerning the beautiful and inter- 
esting art of glass-painting may not be devoid of 
interest. The subject of picture-windows is a large 
one, since their fabrication brings into play many 
and diverse faculties. Not a few people labor 
under the mistake that the words "painted," 
"stained," and "mosaic," when applied to the 



PICTURES IN GLASS 189 

glass of our colored windows, are synonymous 
terms, but so far from this being the case, it often 
happens that some of the best effects are produced 
without either paint or stain. A writer on this 
subject says explicitly: "In painted glass the 
colors are produced by enamels fused into the 
surface of the glass by means of heat. In stained 
glass a permanent transparent color-effect is se- 
cured by the action of heat on certain metallic 
oxides applied to the surface as pigments; while 
in mosaic glass, the design is brought out by the 
use of shaped fragments of colored glass bound 
together by strips of doubly grooved lead." 

As the last-named finds great favor with artists 
in glass, a few facts regarding its production are in 
order. It must not be imagined that the artist 
has only to catch his fine dreams of beauty, when 
with a little manipulation, they become material- 
ized in this fragile substance. On the contrary, 
the first step — and the most difficult one, in the 
making of the picture-window — is to produce that 
daintily colored material which makes the window 
itself possible. When we reflect that all except 
the exposed portion of the figure are wrought out 
by means of small fragments of glass; that drap- 
ery, sky, earth and water are thus produced, some 



190 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

idea may be gained of the almost infinite variety 
of shades required. 

In the manufacture of this glass the materials 
are much the same as in ordinary sheet and plate 
glass: for example, about thirty parts of lime, 
forty of soda to every hundred parts of sand, all 
being fused in fire-clay crucibles, in the usual fur- 
nace. As regards the coloring matter, its name is 
legion; let it suffice to name a few of the most 
important. The lovely shades of violet that so 
charm the eye are produced by the addition of 
manganese dioxide to the fused mass; deep blues, 
indigos and purples, from chromium and copper; 
gold, giving the well-known warm tint of the 
ruby. 

When the artist desires that more than one color 
shall appear in the glass he causes sheets differently 
colored to be mixed together while in the plastic 
condition and thus even sky effects appear as if 
put on by the painter's brush. The production of 
the species called drapery-glass is unique. While 
the sheet is in the plastic condition it is subjected 
to a rumpling process until it strongly resembles 
a piece of crumpled cloth. This, when introduced 
into the picture window, presents a substance 
hardly less natural than the real article. 

While all this labor must be undertaken for the 



PICTURES IN GLASS 191 

body of the window, the soul of it dwells in the 
mind of the artist, and by him must it be evoked 
if he would have his beautiful design live in glass. 
In some quiet moment of inspiration beautiful 
forms and visions knock at the door of his fancy, 
where they meet hospitable reception and after 
many processes, much delicate handling and 
deftness of touch, they are transformed, one might 
say, into images of light. 

These are the pictures before which we stand in 
mute admiration, and with good reason, for the 
artist has so strained and filtered the sunlight that 
it shapes itself at his bidding into forms of light 
and beauty. Gazing in happy abstraction upon 
these fragile creations in glass, in thought we 
wander to other lands, or better, perhaps, forget- 
ting the feverish affairs of life, are lifted to a 
serener atmosphere, a purer air, by contemplating 
those picture-windows whose almost spiritual 
beauty hangs upon a sunbeam. 



THE HUMORIST OF SUNNYSIDE 



THE HUMORIST OF SUNNYSIDE 

ON this side of the Atlantic to-day, there is 
no dearth of literary craftsmen. Not so, 
however, in the morning of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. The literary firmament, since lighted by 
constellations of varied brilliancy, then boasted 
but one bright luminary — the genial Washington 
Irving. 

His first attempt in literature took the shape 
of essays, in which he undertook, good-naturedly, 
to castigate his native town, these efforts giving 
promise of his future fame. In this work, Irving' s 
genius was trying its wings and pluming itself 
for a higher flight, which flight he took when he 
wrote his "History of New York," that daring 
burlesque of the annals of New Amsterdam when 
in its swaddling clothes. The blameless fun and 
irresistible gaiety of the book captured the hearts 
of his readers and its success was a foregone con- 
clusion. 

But, as if loth to bind himself irrevocably, 
Irving still played fast and loose with the muse 

195 



196 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

of literature. A desire for travel sent him a second 
time to Europe, and various causes combined to 
keep him there for seventeen years. Though he 
felt at times an irrepressible longing for his native 
land, yet he profited by his opportunities for study- 
ing men and things, filling his mind with much of 
the lore that threw a peculiar charm over his 
writings. 

Forced by a happy reverse of fortune to turn 
again to literature, hitherto cultivated merely for 
amusement, his genius flowered and bore fruit 
amid the inspiring scenes of old England. The 
Sketch Book, with its mingling of plaintive senti- 
ment and sweet humor, quite took the English 
public by storm, and was the best possible answer 
to Sidney Smith's contemptuous question, "Who 
reads an American book?" 

The gentle, genial Irving beheld England with 
a poet's eye. Its storied past appealed to his 
chivalric soul, and his fancy delighted to people 
its ivied ruins with forms long dead and dust. 
Every quaint custom of the days when England 
was indeed merry, was dear to him. Hence, with 
what evident pleasure he lingers over the descrip- 
tions of Christmas festivities at Bracebridge Hall, 
or the May-pole dances on the village green. 

Having now won a hearing on both sides of the 



THE HUMORIST OF SUNNYSIDE 197 

Atlantic, his pen was seldom permitted to rest. 
To his admiration for Goldsmith's genius, and to 
the fact that they were, in many respects, kindred 
spirits, we owe his fascinating story of that ill- 
starred poet. Taken from the life it seems to be, 
with its record of faults and foibles, blunders and 
large-hearted charities, and yet we love Gold- 
smith all the more for having read it. 

Irving's truant steps ere long led him to Spain, 
and of his stay in that land of sun we have many 
memorials. As we read the magic pages of "The 
Alhambra," we tread with him its marble halls, 
see the Moorish arches, turrets and domes under 
the spell of the Andalusian moonlight, and hear 
the musical plash of Lindaraxa's fountain. There, 
too, he invested his noble conception of the char- 
acter of Columbus with the graces of his style, 
and under the magic of his pen, we seem to see 
the modest navigator standing unnoticed amid the 
gilded throng that made up the court of Ferdinand 
and Isabella. 

As the biographer of Washington, he rose to 
the demands of the subject and we like to think 
that the blessing he received as a child from the 
great commander-in-chief of the Revolution was 
a prophecy of their future relation as hero and 
biographer. 



198 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

But it is especially with New York and the 
Hudson River that his name will be forever linked. 
He has thrown his spell over the Catskill moun- 
tains, over cliff and gorge, gray rocks and shaggy 
forests that keep watch and ward over the river, 
until they, in a way, breathe and burn of him. 
Indeed, to speak of the Hudson suggests the writer 
whose wizard pen has made its shores classic 
ground. 

Irving' s philosophy of life was of the cheery, 
sunny order; a spirit of toleration was his, a 
reverence for the great and good; a genuine love 
of humanity, and these traits are the warp and 
woof of his written word. While his warmest ad- 
mirer cannot hope that all his books will weather 
the storms of time, it seems safe to say that 
his Sketch Book, "Knickerbocker," and "Gold- 
smith" will live to delight future generations. 

Scattered through his writings are many evi- 
dences of his keen religious sensibilities. In one 
of his letters, wherein he lays bare his heart, he 
refers to the uplifting influence of the great cathe- 
drals of Europe, and their awakening within him 
a yearning for something this world could never 
give. In "St. Mark's Eve," he dwells upon the 
beauty of the doctrine of Guardian Angels, and 
elsewhere speaks impressively of the prompt recog- 



THE HUMORIST OF SUNNYSIDE 199 

nition by the Spaniards of the Angelus bell, when 
"as at a melodious signal, earth is linked to 
heaven." And again we read of his fondness for 
the engraving of Ary Schaeffer's Chris tus Consola- 
tory at which he could not gaze without tears. 

"A pity 'tis 'tis true" that we as a people are 
prone to run after new idols, literary and other- 
wise; yet we only cheat ourselves of what is emi- 
nently worth while, if we neglect the writings 
of the humorist of Sunnyside — name suggestive 
of its owner's sunny temperament and warm 
heart. 



THE FIRESIDE BARD 



THE FIRESIDE BARD 

IF there are poets to fit our every mood, surely 
Longfellow is preeminently the one to minister 
to our needs when we are disposed to look upon 
life as an "empty dream." Open the volume of 
his poems where you will, you are sure to find 
verses that speak from the heart to the heart. 
Bring to the reading of his poems a troubled 
spirit, a mind ill at ease, and ere long, under the 
poet's gentle spell, the feeling has fled. 

He who relishes only the verse that rings with 
the blare of trumpets and the clash of arms will 
not be attracted to this poet of the home and heart. 
While his lines do not fire our souls to deeds of 
daring, they do what is of far greater moment — 
they help us in the small difficulties and annoy- 
ances that start up in our daily path. 

Nor is fervid passion his theme. Fierce poetic 
rage, fine frenzy, these are conspicuously absent; 
but, in their stead, the pathos, the beauty of daily 
life, of familiar emotions, of nature's varied 
aspects, inspire his muse to sing with a tenderness 
and sweetness unsurpassed. 

203 



204 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

The note of hope, too, sounds through his verses 
— of pessimism there is not the faintest trace. 
Without obtruding his griefs upon his readers, he 
makes us feel that he too has suffered, but with- 
out bitterness, and he may be said to have truly- 
lived his own poems, in that he made his sorrows 
stepping-stones to higher things. 

The tender grace of his early literary manner 
loses nothing of its charm as he acquires firmness 
of touch, but rather expands into a new loveliness. 
Elegance, rising often to stateliness, is there, and 
at times a splendor of diction, showing that he had 
the riches of our language, like ready ministrants, 
at his beck and call. But those poems that most 
thrill the heart are simple, though never insipid. 
In fact, the simplicity of his style is like the lim- 
pid water of a sunlit brook, and through its trans- 
parent medium the thought looks out upon us, 
clear as the moss and pebbles of a crystal stream. 
No need for men and women to band themselves 
together, cudgeling their brains in the vain effort 
to reach the secret of his meaning. It is patent 
as the beauteous aspect of the sky, the autumnal 
wealth of color, or the vesper song of the thrush. 

And then, the melody of his lines. Their 
smooth and easy flow — ^music caught and en- 
chained by words — from what we know of him, 



THE FIRESIDE BARD 205 

well typifies the poet's character. He lived his 
poems, and they in turn reflect his life. Unlike 
verse, unhappily too common, they bear no trace 
of having been painfully hammered out in the 
brain's workshop; they seem rather to well up 
from their source — the poet's heart. 

As the bard of the domestic affections, the moral 
purity of his verse, in these days of degenerate 
literature, is like a breath from pine-clad hills to 
one gasping in the tainted air of disease and 
death. True, those who cling to the dogma, "art 
for art's sake," cavil at the moral purpose under- 
lying his poems, and yet Longfellow knew how 
to play upon the master-chords of the human 
heart — the infallible test of a true poet. 



SWALLOW FLIGHTS OF SONG 



SWALLOW FLIGHTS OF SONG 

THE world over, the advent of a true singer 
to the poetic ranks is sure to give a thrill of 
delight to sincere lovers of poesy. For this pleas- 
ure we are indebted to the Rev. John B. Tabb, 
whose little volume of poems, published by Cope- 
land and Day, of Boston, is now before us. 

Turning the leaves of this dainty book, the 
reader is impressed not so much by lofty poetic 
soaring as by the artist's depth of feeling and 
closeness of touch with the natural world. Evi- 
dently this poet has surprised nature in all her 
moods, and he interprets her to us in language 
simple and sweet — language that goes straight to 
the heart. 

He sings the flowers, the stars, the birds and 
the complaining brooks — in fact, all the natural 
objects that most appeal to the mind and heart 
of a poet. Of course these themes are world-old, 
yet in the hands of each new poet they take on 
a peculiarly distinctive quality, a new grace. We 
never weary of them, as we never tire of the stars 

209 



210 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

that nightly look in at our windows, or of sum- 
mer, that each year throws over the earth a robe 
of blossoms. 

In much of Father Tabb's verse there is heard 
that elusive note of not unpleasing sadness, in- 
separable from true poetry. We would not have 
it otherwise. The poet is a seer. He looks quite 
through the veil of things. His heart responds to 
breathings that make no impression upon natures 
of a coarser fiber. Small wonder then, that when 
the sadness of mere earthly beauty presses upon 
his heart, it overflows in plaintive melody. "The 
Lonely Mountain" illustrates our thought: 

"One bird that ever with the wakening spring 
Was wont to sing, 
I wait through all my woodlands, far and near, 
In vain to hear. 

The voice of many waters silent long 

Breaks forth in song; 
Young breezes to the listening leaves outpour 

Their heavenly lore : 

A thousand other winged warblers sweet, 

Returning, greet 
Their fellows, and rebuild upon my breast 

The wonted nest, 



SWALLOW FLIGHTS OF SONG 211 

But unto me one fond familiar strain 

Comes not again — 
A breath whose faintest echo, farthest heard, 

A mountain stirred." 

As to the quality of the verse. From the first 
the reader is impressed by the poet's keenly-observ- 
ant eye. The primrose by the river's brink to him 
means something more than a mere primrose, and 
here the bard's dual vision reveals itself. He is 
fond of interpreting one object in terms of another, 
and thus a delightful imagery plays over his verse. 
Just as rain-drops falling upon the surface of a 
pool dimple its waters, causing the latter to break 
into the beauty of multitudinous rings. 

As regards this play of fancy, perhaps the fol- 
lowing will prove our assertion. Of Sappho he 
says : 

"A light upon the headland, flaming far, 

We see thee o'er the widening waves of time. 
Impassioned as a palpitating star." 

The water-lily has caught the fancy of most 
poets. Our author is no exception to the rule and 
here is a stanza of his gay little lyric: 

"Whence, O fragrant form of light. 
Hast thou drifted through the night, 
Swan-like, to a leafy nest. 
On the restless waves at rest?" 



212 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Of the wood-robin he says: 

"Lo, where the blooming woodland wakes 
From wintry slumbers long, 
Thy heart, a bud of silence, breaks 
To ecstasy of song." 

Perhaps it may argue a lack of poetic sympathy, 
but we are inclined to think that lines like the 
following are not so happy : 

"Behold, where in silence is drowned 
The last fleeting echo of sound. 
The rain-bow — its blossom — is found.'* 

Or these: 

"To heap with many a harvest dream 
The granary of sleep." 

In "My Orange Grove" we read: 

"Orbs of autumnal beauty, breathed to light, 
From blooms of May, .... 
The circles of three seasons compassing 
In spheres of gold." 

These to us appear a trifle strained. The glad 
surprise that comes of apt imagery is missing and 
the lines lose in force. 

But while graceful fancies wearing the garb of 
poetic diction may satisfy our sense of beauty, it 



SWALLOW FLIGHTS OF SONG 213 

is quite another matter to touch the heart. Yet 
this our poet has done. Though he does not wear 
his heart upon his sleeve, he has, nevertheless, 
given us poetry which is the outcome of true emo- 
tion. 

From the poem, ''Robin," we quote a stanza 
which combines pathos and music: 

"Come to me, Robin! The far echoes waken 

Cold to my cry; 
Oh ! with the swallow-wing, love-overtaken, 
Hence to the Echo-land, homeward to fly! 
Thou art my life, Robin. Oh ! love-forsaken. 

How can I die?" 

The lines entitled "The Captives," show how 
much may be said in the compass of two short 
stanzas. Here is the last: 

"Strangers in all but misery 
And music's hope-sustaining tie; 
They lived and loved and died apart. 
But soul to soul and heart to heart." 

From "Content" we take these strong lines: 

"The door is shut. To each unsheltered Blessing 

Henceforth I say, 'Depart' ! What would'st thou of 
me? 

Beggared I am of want, this boon possessing, 
That thou dost love me." 



214 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

In that kind of verse most difficult to write — 
religious poetry — this author has achieved signal 
success. He secures this result, in the main, by- 
combining dignity and sincerity of thought with 
simplicity of word. This is best exemplified in 
the poems "Christ to the Victim-Tree," "The 
Assumption" and "The Recompense," the last, a 
lovely setting of the Gospel incident — the break- 
ing of the alabaster box. 

A word about the quatrains. Leaving diffuse- 
ness to inferior artists who prefer quantity to qual- 
ity, this poet-priest chooses the reticence and re- 
straint of the four-line stanza. As a result, we 
have a number of gem-like verse-groups, each 
presenting the crystallization of a happy thought. 
Strongly tempted as we are to support this state- 
ment by quotation, we forbear. 

That the sonnet-lute has not been touched un- 
skilfully by our poet this little book offers delight- 
ful evidence. Here is the octave from the sonnet 
to "Solitude," which will be appreciated by those 
who long for quiet to entertain the timorous 
maiden, Thought: 

"Thou wast to me what to the changing year 
Its seasons are, — a joy forever new; 
What to the night its stars, its heavenly dew, 
Its silence ; what to dawn its lark-song clear ; 



SWALLOW FLIGHTS OF SONG 215 

To noon, its light — its fleckless atmosphere, 
Where ocean and the over-bending blue. 
In passionate communion, hue for hue. 
As one in Love's circumference appear." 

The fine sonnet "Unuttered" voices the poet's 
sadness at his inability to put in words a dream 
ever trembling on the verge of speech. He says 
it is 

"Like a star that in the morning glance 
Shrinks as a folding blossom from the sight. 
Nor wakens till upon the western height 
The shadows to their evening towers advance. 

So in my soul a dream ineffable. 
Expectant of the sunshine or the shade, 
Hath oft, upon the brink of twilight chill. 
Or at the dawn's pale glimmering portal stayed, 
In tears, that all the quivering eyelids fill, 
In smiles that on the lip of silence fade." 

With the keenest appreciation of the beauties 
of these poems, we realize how inadequately they 
have been set forth at our hands. We must per- 
force leave to abler pens the pleasant task of giv- 
ing honor where it is due. We can but say that 
the new singer is gifted with no small share of 
the divine afflatus, and that he is entitled to an 
honored place among the elect of poesy. 



A GREAT CATHOLIC POET 



A GREAT CATHOLIC POET* 

WATCHERS of the poetical firmament were 
startled not long since by the swimming 
into their ken of a new star of poesy, which, though 
shining with a variable brilliancy, literary experts 
pronounce of the first magnitude. The new poet, 
Mr. Francis Thompson, in a volume modestly en- 
titled "Poems," now for the first time addresses 
the whole English-speaking world. The remark- 
able work revealed by this volume provoked curi- 
osity in regard to the writer, and the public soon 
learned that the new poet had repeated the experi- 
ence of most men of genius who have scaled the 
heights of Parnassus. 

His father planned for Francis a medical career; 
but nature made him a poet; and, in the contest 
with her, parental authority played a losing game. 
His passionate devotion to literature cost him a 
home and a father's favor, and for years, we are 

* This sketch and the one preceding first saw the light 
of print many years ago — the Thompson article in the 
pages of the "Ave Maria," where it appeared shortly af- 
ter the publication of that author's first volume of poems. 

219 



220 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

told, privation, poverty and suffering were his 
constant companions. A turn of fortune's wheel, 
and from want and obscurity he has risen to the 
poetic ranks; the encouragement and faith in his 
abilities shown him by a friendly editor figuring 
in large measure to bring about this happy result. 

But has Mr. Thompson presented credentials 
really entitling him to a place among the elect of 
poesy? The slender volume which he offers to 
the public is an invitation to "take and read" 
and satisfy ourselves as to the justice of his claims. 
He has been called the nineteenth-century Cra- 
shaw, and with good reason; for even a cursory 
glance at his work reveals the quaint phrasing, 
the conceits of style as well as the warmth of 
expression characteristic of that poet. All this, 
to one long accustomed to the language and graces 
of Tennyson, is in marked, and at times not wholly 
agreeable contrast. The warmest admirer of the 
new poetic aspirant could not be blind to the 
defects of his style ; they are conspicuous on almost 
every page. 

Prominent among them is his fondness for 
archaic words, as, for instance, "totty," "cock- 
shut," and the rest, all plainly used with malice 
aforethought. Then, too, Mr. Thompson has set 
up a private mint, where, out of Latin bullion, 



A GREAT CATHOLIC POET 221 

he coins words without let or hindrance. This 
new coinage does not bear the official stamp re- 
quired to make it pass current in the republic of 
letters, hence the hue and cry raised by the literary 
inspectors. Obscurities are present also, resulting 
from violent ellipses which, joined to a certain 
mysticism, make it at times difficult to grasp the 
author's meaning. 

But it is more agreeable by far to call attention 
to the manifold beauties of these poems and their 
passionate warmth of expression. These are no 
swallow flights of song, but a bold soaring toward 
the empyrean of poesy. To be sure, the writer 
offends seriously at times, but in the next line he 
makes noble atonement; for then he wraps great 
thoughts in the splendid drapery of burning words. 

The dedication to Wilfrid and Alice Meynell 
is in the form of a lyric, quaint but musical: 

"If the rose in meek duty 

May dedicate humbly 
To her grower the beauty 

Wherewith she is comely; 
If the mine to the miner 

The jewels that pined in it, 
Earth to diviner 

The springs he divined in it; 
To the grapes the wine pitcher 

Their juice that was crushed in it. 



222 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

Viol to its witcher 

The music lay hushed in it; 
If the lips may pay Gladness 

In laughters she wakened, 
And the heart to its sadness 

Weeping unslakened; 
If the hid and sealed coffer 

Whose having not his is, 
To the loosers may proffer 

Their finding — here this is ; 
Their lives if all livers 

To the Life of all living, 
To you, O dear givers! 

I give your own giving." 

The poems occupying the first part of the 
volume are addressed to the lady who recognized 
his genius and befriended him in time of need. 
For this lady, to whom he looks up as to some- 
thing little less than a seraph, he sings an admira- 
tion as chaste as ice, as pure as snow. The follow- 
ing lines from the poem, "Before Her Picture in 
Youth," give the keynote to this admiration: 

"As lovers banished from their lady's face, 

And hopeless of her grace, 
Fashion a ghostly sweetness in its place. 

Fondly adore 
Some stealth-won cast attire she wore — 

A kerchief or a glove; 

And at the lover's beck 



A GREAT CATHOLIC POET 223 

Into the glove there fleets the hand; 

Or at impetuous command 

Up from the kerchief floats the virgin neck: 

So I, in very lowlihead of love — 

Too shyly reverencing 
To let one thought's light footfall smooth 
Tread near the living, consecrated thing, — 

Treasure me thy cast youth. 

As gale to gale drifts breath 

Of blossoms' death, 
So, dropping down the years from hour to hour, 
This dead youth's scent is wafted me to-day; 
I sit, and from the fragrance dream the flower. 

To this the all of love the stars allow me, 
I dedicate and vow me. 
I reach back through the days 
A trothed hand to the dead the last trump shall not 
raise." 

In this poem occurs the line : 

"From those eternal sorrows of thy pictured eyes," 

which suggests Tennyson's: 

"The starlike sorrows of immortal eyes." 

In the poem "To a Poet Breaking Silence," ad- 
miration, thought and symbolism clothed in well- 
chosen words, move along the channel of rhyming 



224 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

couplets with a musical flow, of which the follow- 
ing lines afford a fair example : 

"Ah! let the sweet birds of the Lord 
With earth's waters make accord; 
Teach how the crucifix may be 
Carven from the laurel tree, 

The Muses' sacred grove be wet 
With the red dew of Olivet, 
And Sappho lay her burning brows 
In white Cecilia's lap of snows." 

"Manus Animam Pinxit" is a pathetic appeal 
to the lady who holds dominion over him, to be 
true and noble; since if she prove less than his 
ideal, the knowledge would be fatal. A few lines 
may be quoted: 

"Like to a wind-sown sapling grow I from 
The clift, Sweet, of your sky ward- jetting soul ; 

But ah ! if you, my Summer, should grow waste. 

With grieving skies o'ercast. 
For such migration my poor wing was strong 
But once; it has no power to fare again 

Forth o'er the heads of men." 

"A Carrier-Song" is evidently modeled upon 
Scott's lyric, beginning: 



A GREAT CATHOLIC POET 225 

"Where shall the lover rest 

Whom the fates sever? . . . 



But this lyric lacks the minor tones of Sir Walter's 
composition, and is gay and bright, with quaint 
turns of expression. Here is a stanza: 

"Whereso your angel is 
My angel goeth, 
I am left guardianless, 

Paradise knoweth! 
I have no Heaven left 

To weep my wrongs to, 
Heaven, when you went from us, 
Went with my songs too. 
Seraphim, 
Her to hymn. 
Might leave their portals, 
And at my feet learn 
The harping of mortals." 

In strange contrast to this, the stanzas, "To the 
Dead Cardinal of Westminster," are unusual in 
meter, subtle in thought, and somber and sad in 
expression : 

"As sap foretastes the spring, 
As earth ere blossoming 
Thrills 
With far daffodils, 



226 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

And feels her breast turn sweet 
With unconceived wheat; 
So doth 
My flesh foreloathe 
The abhorred spring of Dis." 

In "A Corymbus for Autumn" there is a cer- 
tain abandon^ an elation of spirit hard to be 
described. It throbs and glows with poetic feel- 
ing, though marred by the omnipresent Latin poly- 
syllables. The poet, seemingly intoxicated with 
joy, gives his muse free rein, becoming, in conse- 
quence, somewhat obscure, with his thronging 
fancies and splendid imagery. The following ex- 
tracts seem to me peculiarly beautiful: 

"Hearken my chant, 'tis 
As a Bacchante's, 
A grape-spurt, a vine-splash, a tossed tress, flown vaunt 
'tis! 
Suffer my singing, 
Gipsy of seasons, ere thou go winging; 

Far other saw we, other indeed, 

The crescent moon, in the May-days dead, 
Fly up with its slender white wings spread 

Out of its nest in the sea's waved mead! 

Day's dying dragon lies drooping his crest, 
Panting red pants into the west; 



A GREAT CATHOLIC POET 227 

Or a butterfly sunset claps its wings 

With flitter alit on the swinging blossom — 

The gusty blossom that tosses and swings. 

Of the sea with its blown and ruflled bosom. 

The fine imagery of the following can hardly 
be surpassed: 

"The calm hour strikes on yon golden gong, 
In tones of floating and mellow light 
A spreading summons to even-song. 
See how there 
The cowled night 
Kneels on the eastern sanctuary stair. 
What is this feel of incense everywhere? 
Clings it round folds of the blanch-amiced clouds, 
Upwafted by the solemn thurifer. 
The mighty spirit unknown, 
That swingeth the slow earth before the embannered 
Throne?" 

The rising moon, our poet tells us, comes : 

"In vesture unimagined fair:" 
and 

"As if she had trodden the stars in press. 
Till the gold wine spurted over her dress — 
Till the gold wine gushed out round her feet, 
Spouted over her stained wear. 
And bubbled in golden froth at her feet." 

In the ode, "The Hound of Heaven," we see 
the poet at his best; and his best is, to my thinking. 



228 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

great. The soul pursued by divine grace is the 
theme — a theme treated with mingled dignity 
and pathos, high thought, and — save for a crop- 
ping out here and there of his pet defects — an 
expression, lofty and noble. The ode begins: 

"I fled Him down the nights and down the days, 
I fled Him down the arches of the years ; 

I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways 

Of my own mind ; and in the midst of tears 

I hid from Him, and under running laughter." 

Betrayed by men, the soul turns for consolation 
to little children ; but here, too, it is disappointed : 

"I sought no more that after which I strayed, 

In face of man or maid; 
But still within the little children's eyes 
Seems something, something that replies; 
They at least are for me, surely for me ! 
I turned me to them very wistfully, 
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair 

With dawning answers there, 
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair." 

Seeking to penetrate the mystery of life and 
death, he says: 

"I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds, 
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds 
From the hid battlements of eternity; 
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then 



A GREAT CATHOLIC POET 229 

Round the half -glimpsed turrets slowly wash again; 
But not ere him who summoneth 

I first have seen, enwound 
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned." 

While Mr. Thompson does not obtrude his 
Catholicity upon his readers, its influence is every- 
where felt, and furnishes the theme for his loftiest 
flights. In the last stanza, the sweetness, pity, 
and infinite love of God find simple but noble 
expression : 

" 'Strange, piteous, futile thing ! 
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?' " 
Seeing none but I makes much of naught, (He said), 
" 'And human love needs human meriting; 

How hast thou merited — 
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? 

Alack, thou knowest not 
How little worthy of any love thou art! 
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee. 

Save Me, save only Me? 
All which I took from thee I did but take 

Not for thy harms. 
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. 

All which thy child's mistake 
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home; 

Rise, clasp My hand and come !' " 

As regards the "Poems on Children," which 
form the third part of the book, they lack the sim- 



230 IDYLS AND SKETCHES 

plicity one would expect to find in such verse; 
though even in these there are poetic flashes, like 
lightning in a summer cloud. 

Should the criticisms of the press penetrate to 
the monastery in Wales, where for a time the poet 
has taken up his abode, we doubt that they will 
disturb his mental serenity. He can afford to 
cultivate calmness, to whom the severest critics 
concede "fervor, a certain lyrical glow, magnifi- 
cence, abundant fancy, and a measure of swift 
imagination." Unquestionably, Francis Thomp- 
son has won for himself a niche in the temple of 
fame. 



